A Heart in Those Gloves
by SomeDrunkSheep
Summary: A businessman with a conscience is a bit like a hooker with principles, Augustus Sinclair had always believed. It wasn't unheard of, though neither was the best bub in the branch. But there he was, batting his eyes at the morality of his choices and what had guided him through life, and worst of all - feelings and someone else's happiness. Augustus Sinclair/Subject Delta, M rated.
1. 1 - The Hands That Could Speak

Full summary - A businessman with a conscience is a bit like a hooker with principles, Augustus Sinclair had always believed. It wasn't unheard of, though neither was the best bub in the branch.

It takes one to know one and, in all his infinite modesty, he knew that he was one hell of an entrepreneur.

But there he was, batting his eyes at the morality of his choices and what had guided him through life, while Subject Delta, the one he had rented for testing, was making pastries for him and Eleanor, in their shared house by the ocean. And, if matters could get any worse, he was contemplating over feelings and someone else's happiness, of all the things that could have passed through his head.

Augustus Sinclair/Subject Delta, M rated.

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A/N: Mornin'! This is a little delving into the BioShock universe which I hope that you will enjoy. It's a damn shame there are so few stories with Sinclair and Delta, because they are both great characters that are surprisingly fun to write.

The story contains explicit porn with plot and some back story for the characters, because it hurt not to play a bit with them. And I mean it when I say it gets graphic, because come on - it's Sinclair, and graphic just happens with him. It's unavoidable!

I would love to hear what you think of this story, so please leave me some feedback on it. Thank you kindly for reading, I hope that you will enjoy it!

As per warnings, it is a story that involves two men falling in love, so you know what to expect. Oh, I've almost forgotten the disclaimer – I own nothing besides the plot and some sketched original characters.

That being said, on with the slaughter...

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Chapter 1 - The Hands That Could Speak

Part One – The Learning Curb

As he laid on the padded lounge chair, comfortably stretched on his back and eyes looking straight into the blinding sun of that fine evening, Augustus Sinclair thought of the strange path that his life had taken from the moment he had had enough of thinking about the others, and focused solely on thinking about himself.

His mother, may her soul rest in peace in the Heavens up above, wouldn't be proud of his ideology. He dreaded imagining what she would have said if she had gotten to see him becoming what he had, during the half decade he'd been around and kicking. She would have given him a piece of her mind about a thing or two, or perhaps, everything that he had done since she had closed her eyes and hadn't opened them ever again.

'That is not the sweet boy I have raised,' she would have probably said to him, but after some very fast soul searching, Sinclair deemed that he was not fazed by the image. His mother had been under the burnt soil of Panama for long enough not to have seen him as anything but a curios teenager with bright eyes and kind smile. At best, the idea just left him with a sour taste in the mouth, one that he quickly washed away with the sweetened spiked iced tea that he had been nursing for over an hour.

That poor woman, she had been such a beautiful, selfless person. Named Eskarme Catalina at birth, his mother had been blessed with the kind of merciful spirit that only those who lived in overpopulated communities withering away under the scorching sun in great poverty could have. Her youthful face had been smooth and radiant, just like her easy smile, and Sinclair couldn't remember a single strike of white in her thick, curly dark hair. Not that she had gotten to the age when she would have had them, but well. It was nice that he still remembered her and quite frankly, he missed her more than he liked to admit. She hadn't been a bad person, but damn, hadn't she gotten a rotten luck in the grand scheme of things.

Maybe that is what happens to those who are good to the others and not to themselves, Sinclair had told himself many times, whenever his thoughts were drifting towards the sense of life and, well, his long departed family. Truthfully, the most striking memories he had with his mother were her stories - and this one in particular, that she used to tell Augustus whenever he was finding the woman crying her eyes out on the floor of her lonely bedroom.

Not quite sixteen yet, Eskarme Catalina had run into a dashing American, not the tallest bloke, but with a personality that could fill up a district. A buoyant character and so very charming, with a brilliant grin of whitest teeth. He was the only son of a wealthy family who owned a vacation house in the domains next to her village – they jokingly called it 'La Cabaña', but that thing was like a bloody mansion in the eyes of the barefooted girl. He was older than her, having celebrated his thirtieth birthday already, but he looked far younger than that. He could have easily passed as being twenty or, let us say, twenty-two.

Well, when Sinclair said that she had run into him, he meant that she had literally collided with him. Or so his mother had told him, he hadn't been around at that moment.

However it had happened, that day, the young girl had been about to deliver the food she had made for her father and the ones he was working with at a construction site in the city, and she had been in tremendous hurry.

Her father had been the one who had raised her alone after her mother had died, shortly after her birth. The old man had been a constructor who had had the misfortune to be born poor, because if he had had the money to go to the University, he would have made a brilliant engineer. He had been a man with a vision, Sinclair liked to believe from what he'd heard, and he had quite despised the family that spent some better part of the summer in 'La Cabaña'. They cut into the deep bone, overseeing their business in the foreign country. He had said they had no regard of the little man and that they had no mercy, blatantly showing it to the men they no longer needed to work for them or to their many servants. His mother had always highlighted this part of her story, and Sinclair often marvelled at its irony.

Her eyes being solely focused on not dropping the hot contents of the clay bowl, and not quite on the road, the young girl hadn't really noticed that there were other people walking around her. She had been so very late, being already midday and the workers had to be fed. She had gotten so caught up in that book of hers and completely forgotten that the food on the stove had to be taken quite far from home.

Her hurried steps had taken her straight into a man that was minding his own business. The food spilled all over his pristine egg-white cotton suit, turning it into a brownish mess.

At that very moment, when she had seen the stained cloth, Eskarme Catalina had felt like she was going to die of embarrassment. She had started to beg for forgiveness, too petrified to look up, and she had been this close to bursting into tears. It was crystal clear that the man was wealthy, judging by the polished shoes that had carrots on their tips and the pants dripping of tomato sauce.

She would have expected a cruel punishment, the one deserved by those who lived from one day to the other, but what she had gotten was good natured laughter. She had looked up, and then, she had seen him. The man with the dazzling smile.

How his mother used to love talking about him, the one that would eventually become dear Augustus' father. Emerson Sinclair had been the name of the bonny stranger, and she had always said that she had never seen a man like him. Blackest hair, bluest eyes, richest laugh and most playful smile.

If his father hadn't been the perfect embodiment of crafted exaggeration, Sinclair had no idea what he had been. He supposed that it was him from whom he had inherited his penchant of making a show out of everything he did, but that wasn't the point of the story.

The man hadn't stricken Eskarme Catalina down, like she had expected. He had humbly apologised to her, in his heavily accented Spanish, for not being careful enough and bumping into her.

It had been shocking, to say the least, to have an American talking so nicely to her. He had shown no signs of not meaning his words – he had looked downright ashamed after his initial amusement, even if he was still smiling reassuringly.

The next audacity had been his proposal of replacing the meal he had ruined. Eskarme Catalina looked at him as if he had gone insane, but he had insisted. He had taken her to a restaurant he preferred, filled her ceramic bowl with far finer food than the one she had made, and apologised some more between friendly chatter.

Continuing her way to the constructing site, Eskarme Catalina had realised she had become smitten with a man she had no clue about, only that he belonged to the family that her father had said it was made from bad, Godless people.

She hadn't seen anything bad in him, in the little time they had spent together while he was repairing her mistake – not his. Hers. She had been the one who hadn't paid attention, she kept on insisting.

Nothing had happened for a few days, until she had heard a rock hitting her window, in the middle of the night. She had slipped out of bed and carefully looked outside. It had been that man, the one she had soiled with food.

"And he was holding the most beautiful bouquet of flowers and smiling his best smile, your good old Daddy," his mother used to tell him, reminiscing on his father. "He looked both embarrassed and proud for waking me up in the middle of the night."

He had kept on visiting her, every night, for a few months, bringing all sorts of little gifts. Eskarme Catalina thought it was more than worth it, being kept awake when it was dark, losing so much sleep, making it hard to stay focused on her chores during the day.

And, to her greatest surprise, not even once, Emerson hadn't suggested anything inappropriate to her. Quite frankly, he adored the young girl with light caramel skin and shimmering hazel eyes. She was such a delight to listen to, with her bubbly voice and eager explanations about everything and anything. She knew many stories and was unexpectedly well read, borrowing countless books from the local library where the librarian had taken a parental liking to her and allowed her to take anything for free. She had no problem with her English, but he liked hearing her speaking in her native tongue far better. She had been curious about him, too, and he had told her about his home in the United States, and his travels, and his work as a lawyer for his father's firm.

They had talked and talked and talked until, one day, he hadn't appeared at her window. She had waited for months, but there had been no sign of him for almost a year.

One night, she had heard that rock again, hitting the window. She had hurried to the sill and there he was, the handsome American with the soothing voice. She had begun crying at his sight, looking just how she had imagined him every single day spent without him, and he had cried, too, for seeing the girl he had believed to be the purest of all.

They had hugged so tightly and for so long, one might have thought they were, in fact, two statues. They had talked again, and the next night, and so on.

Emerson had wanted to explain why he had been absent, but she had stopped him, saying that she wanted only happiness to rest between them, wanted to forget the days when they hadn't been together, babbling away under the moonlight.

She'd had to be mindful of these encounters, not wanting her father to know. They had been merely talking, but he would have been furious to know that she had been chatting for so long with a soulless man, like he called the rich.

However, one night, Emerson had arrived earlier, wanting to show her some star that he had read about and was visible only at a certain hour. He had been waiting for her to get ready for a few minutes, sitting on the window sill and slowly humming some Southern song, when, to their shared horror, the door to her room opened.

She had forgotten to lock it.

Her father had caught them in the least compromising situation imaginable, Emerson perched on the sill and she, brushing her hair. Augustus didn't blame his grandfather for his reaction, because it was the sort of image that didn't usually lead to anything innocent, in his experience. Anyway, it was neither his place to comment, nor the way the story went, though it stood true that his grandfather had been positively enraged. He had said certain things that made Eskarme Catalina burst into tears, terrified by what her father had been implying. The man hadn't really done anything more than hugging her that one, singular time, when they had been reunited after a year of not hearing from each other.

She had tried to reason with her father, speaking through her tears. Emerson had jumped into the room and kept the same polite distance as he had always held between them. He had begged the girl not to cry. He hadn't looked at her father, but spoke to her in his unnaturally drawly Spanish, "I should be the one shedding tears, my beautiful girl, for not having the courage to say what I have been dying to say."

Both eyes had darted to him, a pair watery and the other, furious.

"You dare talk to her, after you have defiled her?" her father had accused, this close to strangling the stranger.

Eskarme Catalina had shaken her head and sworn that nothing like that had ever happened, but neither man listened to her.

"Please, Sir, allow me the word," Emerson had continued levelly, and pressed both his hands on his chest. "I am deeply and sincerely in love with your daughter, and it would be the greatest honour if you would bless my proposal of marrying her."

Whenever she told Augustus about that night, his mother gained a grave air. There had been an unnecessarily violent fight between his grandfather and his father, many swears and fists being thrown, and a lot of yelling that had become unrelated to their situation from a point. His mother had been ashamed by how things had unfolded, and it had been even worse when Emerson had suggested their marriage to his family. Thankfully, the two lovers had been hell bent on going on with it.

Storming out of the house, Eskarme Catalina had dragged Emerson Sinclair to the first church, had the priest wed them, then hauled him to the Mayor Hall, where they had their legal papers done.

Just like that, they had become husband and wife.

They had been overjoyed with what they had accomplished and resorted to moving to a propriety that Emerson had owned in the nearby town. Not that they could have gone somewhere that belonged to the Sinclairs, as Emerson had resigned from his post at the family's firm and had been disowned at the notion of being engaged, then marrying a poor girl from the slums.

It had mattered little to them. Far more forgiving than Emerson, who had made a point of mudding his parents' names whenever they were brought up, Eskarme Catalina had gotten in contact with her father. Missing his daughter, her father had accepted the peace offering. Strangely, he had even started to get along with her husband, who had turned out to be a reasonable man, unlike all expectations.

So, by the time little Augustus had made his appearance some weeks before the Christmas of 1912, both his grandfather and his father had reached the point where they could both agree that they sounded a lot like friends.

It might be peculiar to give the name of Augustus to a child born in mid December, but his mother had liked it. She had said that she could feel that her boy was going to be grand, like an emperor, and that he needed to be named something fitting.

His father had chuckled and went along with his wife, liking the name for his awfully loud boy. Augustus had been a curious and overly talkative child, and he had driven his parents insane with his need to know about everything and want to be a part of it all from the moment he first moved his small hands.

Their family had been doing alright at that moment – not brilliant, but definitely not bad. His mother had taught the poor children how to read, write in Spanish and talk in English, and his father had opened a cheap – sometimes free - legal assistance office for those in need. He had made sure that they weren't conned when signing all sorts of papers, all trying to survive another day of hard labour. His grandfather had already moved in with the disowned Sinclairs for some good time and started helping young boys to learn how to build, giving them a chance to earn their bread.

The beginning of the year 1914 hit them hard with the premature death of his grandfather. Naturally, Augustus remembered nothing of it, because he hadn't even known how to walk properly when his mother had received the note that her father had been involved in an accident at the construction site of the great Panama Canal, being the sole victim during that fateful day. The man had been decorated posthumous for his bravery, having saved many lives – and a General of the army who no one had any idea what the hell he'd been doing there, probably a propaganda visit - before the structure under him collapsed, taking his grandfather to the bottom of the ocean with it.

To say the least, the two adults that remained in the house had been devastated by the news. Augustus, the little brown haired toddler, had sensed little distress over the event, and babbled his incoherent speech on.

But life had to go on, just not with his grandfather.

That had been Augustus Sinclair's little family while he was growing up. He had had no other siblings and he had been more than fine with that. He had lacked nothing, having all the affection in the world and not going to sleep hungry, but that doesn't mean that he had had a childhood indulged in wealth – his family had really believed in the common good and helping those in need. Charity and cleansing of the soul sort of things.

So had Augustus, really. Up to a point, when he had had enough of it.

He had been still too young when his father had encountered the misfortune of getting into the crossfire between two gangs – he had been merely coming back home from work – and he had received a fatal wound. He hadn't died on spot and managed to drag himself to the front door, where he had collapsed in the arms of the hysterical Eskarme Catalina, who held him tightly as he drew his last breath. The last thing that Emerson Sinclair had seen had been the thick hair of his wife and the gasping face of young Augustus, clutching a leather-bound book.

After that, his mother hadn't been the same. Once a ray of sunshine, she had become drawn from the world, finding her sole consolation in her work with the poor children. She had caught ill not too long after, neglecting her health in favour of taking care of her son and other children that needed her.

One day, she had caught severe pneumonia and in her depressed state, it had advanced too quickly.

His mother had left Sinclair alone when he had been not quite sixteen. The same age as his mother had been when she had met his father.

Not even the entire iced tea in the world could quench the burn Augustus Sinclair felt whenever he thought of his family. The beverage in his hand had turned lukewarm, improper to hold the title, but he gulped it down and resumed looking at the purplish sky of the evening.

If there was something to say - and quite frankly so - about what he had learnt from his family, it wouldn't be hard for him to find the words. He hadn't been with them for a long time, but Lord, hadn't they marked him for life.

His mother had taught him kindness, showing him only warmth and how to give it freely. His father had taught him sacrifice, showing him that some things were worth it.

And his grandfather had taught him the face of pain.

The old man had been the first to die, in the name of what he had called 'the greater good'. 'Good thing it did to Ma' and Da',' Sinclair thought remorsefully. 'But darn good it'd done to me.'

The day he had found himself alone on the face of Earth, young Augustus had had a severe rupture with the thought of how he could contribute to the wellbeing of the poor. What good have they done to him, anyway? After everything, he still had been orphaned, with literally no siblings to know of his existence.

Would the pity that people showed to him do any good to his departed family? His grandfather had died to save some, albeit grateful, complete strangers. Augustus had virtually no idea whom his grandfather had died for – he only knew that the old man was dead, and had been so for a long time.

His father had been killed by the stupidity of those he had helped. Some idiots thinking themselves to be gangsters in the Bronx had accidentally killed the one who had tried to keep them out of trouble. Whoever they had been, Sinclair had a hunch that they likely had gotten themselves shot over other things.

And his mother, she had died because she had neglected herself. He could readily swear that he had begged her to mind herself, desperately telling her that he needed her alive and well, but she had forgotten that she was prone to illness like anyone else. She had drowned into her sorrow and was buried under its heavy toll, just like that. From self neglect.

So, the glass had reached its capacity. Augustus Sinclair had made sure that nothing like that ever happened to him. From the day when he had first had these thoughts onward, he had taken his destiny into his own hands and made it all about him.

Oh, and it had been solely about him, because he was the only effort that was worth his while.

He had worked his arse off and raised some fast money to add to what he'd had left from his father. He had sold everything he had from his parents in Panama and travelled to the state of Georgia, in the United States of America, to make his fortune.

To get himself into the good world, he had applied for and earned a diploma in Finances. And then another in Marketing and Transactions, but damn, did he care a dime about them. He had only gotten the certificates because he could, not because he had needed them – by the time they were written and signed, he was already having many small investments coming back to him and paying off grandly.

From then on, it had been only up and higher for him. With absolutely no regrets, he had made it his principle of action that, if whatever that caught his eye might cash out, no matter how daft it sounded to the others, he made it his own. And if it was someone else's pie and he thought he could turn it into something more? Well, tough luck to those piteous bastards, because they didn't even realise until it was too late for them that Sinclair had shoved his hand straight into the cream.

Despite his sore lack of morality and acceptable values, people liked being around him and fawned over his company. That had been his advantage from the start. That, and being awfully nosy to know a bit about everyone he interacted with, though without turning uncouth. To create a little mask to show the world, he had adopted a bouncy Southern accent to honey his once impeccable English and gave it his personal twist, making himself well regarded with his easy charm. He wasn't bad to look at, either, having inherited his father's good looks and his mother's striking features, and he made sure to always come up as well kept.

So, with a pleasant way to talk and a dashing appearance, Augustus Sinclair set himself on the path to success.

He surrounded himself with the right company, got his money in the right places, and by the time he was thirty, he had more yearly income than anyone would need for three or four comfortable lives. That does not mean that his earnings hadn't spurned him on, to further gains. He was a natural for it and, in some ways, a straight through hyena.

When Andrew Ryan had contacted him about his interesting proposition of a free market in the sunken city of Rapture, Sinclair had smelled new opportunities. He had put all of his businesses above ground in good keep, made sure that his money were being well administered, and took the deep plunge into the water. He earned himself another good fortune down there, with his savvy instinct for investments, and made sure that he collected interesting technologies to patent to his name when he got back up, to the surface.

If Ryan had thought that he would have stayed underwater forever, he had been mistaken. Yes, Sinclair had been aware that no one could leave Rapture, but eh, that had meant little to him.

Until it actually had meant something.

The fall of Rapture hadn't surprised him, but Sinclair hadn't expected he would be still stuck in it while it happened. He was supposed to be back under the sun of Georgia by then, back home, not deep under the Atlantic Ocean. That hadn't been the plan.

But he had made the best of it, like he had always done with everything life threw at him. He had continued with his little financial empire until everyone around him had gotten insane from the plasmids he had been promoting, but well, that's the world of business – some get the gold and some get crushed under others' need for it.

Unfortunately, he had been starting to get the other side of the coin from the moment Sofia Lamb, the wonderful psychiatrist he had thought a stroke of genius to hire while she had been in his penitentiary, had made herself the queen of the prom and shoved him into the corner of shame.

Trapped into hiding in the Ryan Amusements – how lucky for him, it drove him up the wall to hear all the funnies in there – he had been contacted by the only one daft enough to return to Hellhole, Rapture after they had escaped, none other than Doctor Brigid Tenenbaum.

Sinclair had known her for many years and he had had more than enough experience with her. In his most humble opinion, that woman was mental. He, not even in his wildest dreams, wouldn't have returned to the ravaged city to save some random children he had no strings attached to.

He had told her that much, but Tenenbaum had ignored him. She had said that she had to pay her debts, and heh, didn't he know about the danger of debts – they were the thing no businessman wanted to have.

They had helped each other survive, one way or another, even if Sinclair hadn't really cared about her holy salvage mission or whatever she preferred calling it. Thankfully, they had both refused to use any of the many plasmids that were scattered around, because they knew what those things did to a human. However, they still had managed to keep themselves alive and fairly well.

When that big hunk of Subject Delta had arrived to his makeshift residence in the Ryan Amusements onboard the Atlantic Express, had been one of those few times when Sinclair wondered if he had made the right choices in life. Maybe there was a God even for the sinners, sending angels to their salvation, but He could have had the decency to send someone Sinclair hadn't sold to a testing facility, if He was feeling so merciful out of the sudden.

Augustus had guided the big lumbering bucker that he had started to sympathise with, despite not being able to say a single word back to him. Sinclair had talked enough over the radio for the both of them, anyway, so there weren't any awkward silences. By the time he had met Delta in person, he had actually gotten to care for his wellbeing.

And there, the conscience came, something that Augustus hadn't been sure that he still possessed. The occupant of the suit that had been escorted to Persephone had his skin grafted into the interior of the cloth and metal that covered him, yet he had more morality in his bones than anyone he had ever encountered in his career. Delta had been ready to sacrifice himself to save the girl that he had been bound to, even if her mother had made him shoot himself in the head. If that wasn't selfless, then it was nameless.

Delta, not too surprisingly, had reminded Sinclair of his long departed mother.

Nothing could go until the end so well - it would have been perfect if they could have just gotten along with their purpose and then scram the hell back up to the surface – but that vindictive maniac, Lamb, had other ideas for them.

Just as the retired Big Daddy was coming to meet with him outside of the train they had driven to Persephone, Sinclair had been kidnapped by her splicers.

Damn all Gods up above, those things were horrifying to look at. The pangs of guilt had tugged at Sinclair, but there was nothing he could have done but be astonished that he could feel even slight remorse over anything he had done.

That revelation had been fast replaced by fear when he had seen an empty black suit staring at him – that mad woman was having him transplanted into the body of a blasted Big Daddy.

Oho, the marvellous description his mind had provided him with, during those moments.

The rabid bitch had had the fucking nerve to talk to him about the salvation of Rapture and whatever shit she was getting off to when she wasn't having her head up her arse, while some goonies of hers were tying him to a table. Oh, that still got anger to the boiling point into Sinclair, even when he was merely remembering that day.

She had told Sinclair he was going to become the last of the defective Alpha Series to be made, because he was broken anyway – if he hadn't been tied down, he would have loved to break her teeth, to match with his persona. He would become Omega, she had continued, to signify their end. 'The creator who is eaten up by his creation,' she had called him, despite Sinclair not being the one to make the Big Daddies – he had only given the inmates on the silver plate for testing.

After all, he had been the one who had shovelled Delta – called Johnny Topside by everyone – to the experimental facility that had gotten him clad in metal.

Right when the scalpel was preparing to cut him up and prepare him for the transformation, Sinclair had felt a bucket of blood spilling all over him. The roar of an engine echoed along with the moaning of a Big Daddy, and it was then when he had realised that Delta had saved him.

The rest mattered little, because he had gotten out, along with Delta, young Eleanor Lamb and many Little Sisters to be returned to their rightful families. The two men – funny to call Delta a man, but Sinclair thought him to be one of the finest he had had the pleasure to meet, with organs inside or outside their bodies – helped the girls up to the vessel to the surface, one by one.

The tide had been merciless to them and they'd found each other in the situation of nearly drowning. With great effort, Delta had managed to get himself and all of the children to safety and he had struggled to get Sinclair, the turbulences making it impossible for him to reach the soon to be floating man.

Sinclair's only choice at that moment had been, most unexpectedly, the same Sofia Lamb who had nearly gotten him killed. She had travelled up with them but, being left just with Sinclair in the agitated waters and seeing Delta preparing to meet his death to save his newly found friend, Lamb did the impossible and pushed him out of the ocean.

Shocked by his sudden ability to breathe, Sinclair watched the blonde woman sink lower, back into the depths, her lungs invaded with salty water. Her citadel had become her watery grave and her flooded corpse was left to the fishes to feed on.

The memory shot shivers up his spine. The way the dying woman had looked at her daughter had been eerily familiar – it had been the same way that his father had looked at him, that one last time. With regret for leaving him, and with love.

That travel down the memory lane left Sinclair with the need of a smoke, and badly. And a drink. And a wrench to the head, to sleep well through the night. He had been such a fool to believe that Rapture would leave him completely unscattered.

The glass in his hand was empty and the sun was burning his skin, but Sinclair felt alive. He could see the sky and inhale the fresh air, not recycled from artificially created trees. He had an opened book over his belly, left down to give him space to ponder about his condition, and nothing else around him. Or, at least, not any cigarettes. He had, however, the holder for one in his pocket, and he idly played with it, looking at the ocean in front of him. A seagull was staring at him, and Sinclair winked at the bird.

Like someone had heard his mind, at the same time as he saw the seagull taking off to find some fish, Augustus heard the light footing of someone behind him. Then, he felt a hand on his shoulder. "I thought you might be looking for these," Eleanor told him and gave him a cigarette metal case.

"Ah, did you read my mind? Thank you kindly, sugar tart," Sinclair said in his bouncy talk.

Eleanor presented him with a stern face as she took a seat next to him, on another lounge chair. She had made it clear to him that she did not appreciate the many names that he was finding for her, but that didn't stop Sinclair from inventing new ones. It was in his way of speaking to make up ridiculous names for people, but she was among the rare few he really wanted to give syrupy diminutives.

He shoved a cigarette into the holder and lit it with a match. He preferred the matches better to a lighter, the bit of effort to ignite the wooden stick making him feel that the fire was coming from the exterior, not from within.

"Have you seen your ol' Daddy, sweet gal?" he asked her.

The girl nodded, then looked into the distance. "Yes, Sinclair," she retorted, punctuating his name.

'Hah, this little one has a temper,' he thought fondly. Young Eleanor had grown quite a lot on him, to the point he considered her to be his daughter.

Funny, he could have had children that would have been about her age, maybe a bit older. He could have married, he had always been surrounded by a flock of beautiful women to warm himself with, after all, but he had never found the one who would bring him the right profit.

He erased that little introspect and watched the pale face of his protégée, in lack of a word that wouldn't bring other implications.

"Father was looking at your old photograph albums."

"Mighty nice of you to remind me I'm gettin' old," he made with a chuckle. The smoke had lifted his spirits up a notch, because otherwise, he would have felt even lower than before.

"You are much older than me," she stated, voice devoid of any inflection.

"You could dare say ancient, thanks a heap," Sinclair suggested and filled with joy when he heard Eleanor snort.

"I find it unsettling to see Father look so much through your photographs. Though I think he wants to see more of the outer world, because he cannot remember how it was."

"Might be so," he trailed on. He had done a bit of searching into the possessions he had kept in storage while he had been under the ocean, and he had found some albums that Delta was occasionally rummaging through. "I could just snatch them all and hide 'em if you wish him not to... find 'em anymore."

"No, they do him good. I heard him humming a song, a few moments ago, while he was looking at them. It just saddens me to see him so... driven into himself. He sometimes seems so unhappy... It's hard to explain."

"Eleanor, sweet pie," Sinclair said and turned on his side to look at her, determining her to mimic him, "Your Daddy loves you, very much. He'd done all and everythin' to get you back, and the ol' knack has done it all for you. Keep that in your mind, honey, 'cause it's true as the crisp in the toast, okay? Your Daddy loves you."

"Yes, Sinclair, but that does not justify for him being miserable! I just wish I could do more for Father, he had done so much for me!" Her features were abundant of pain and helplessness, and it pained the older man see her like that. She was such a dear child, keeping a warm heart despite what that bitch of a mother had done to her.

Poor delusional Sofia, he thought. What had she really hoped to achieve?

Eleanor looked down and sniffed. "Pardon me, it is hard to see him like this. I feel like it's my fault."

"Nah, kid, don't you say that!" Augustus shifted more, to see her fully. She returned his gaze, proving that he had her attention. "Your Daddy is ah, merely confused. We all are, in a way or another. Followin' me?"

"Yes, but-"

"Listen now, honey, and you can give me your opinion later. You must understand your Daddy. He remembers squat from before he'd become one of the Alpha Series. You said it yourself, after all. He just wanna recall how it was to live back in the day. I have this hunch he couldn't be more than... hm, say, ten years younger than myself."

He tried to remember how Delta had looked when he had been fully human but, with chagrin, Sinclair realised that he hadn't seen him even once, not when he had still been dwindling around the halls of Rapture and not when he had been an inmate sold to be experimented on - why would he have given any damns about him, when he clearly hadn't been profitable?

Sinclair shook his head, wanting to regain his cool. "Maybe fifteen, kinda hard to be precise, but can't be more than that," he continued. "What I'm tryin' to say is, most of my photos are from when he was young, an' he wants to see what the world looked like back then. How people dressed, what they did, their buildings and the likes."

"I know."

"And you must understand another thing about your Daddy," he continued. "It's hard for him to see y'all grown up. Yeah, you ain't exactly an adult, but you've gotten much bigger since he'd last seen your pretty face. He knows little about what you've been through, beetle bug, an' he wishes he'd taken better care of you. He feels responsible for you, an' now that you're older, you don't need a Daddy."

"But I still need him!"

"Not for what the poor ol' dog'd been made, you don't. They'd made him for shielding you, an' now you need less of that. But the big lad knows you need him still an' that you love him, he just feels like all parents feel when their toddlers become toads. Dazed and confused, I think it's the proper way to put it."

"Do you think it has anything to do with me going away for school for so many hours?"

"School? Eleanor, you go to school and get your papers, make a thing out of yourself. Listen to me. You're a smart girl, you'll make it grand. I have a nose for these kinds of things, so you can count on it. He's not bothered by that, he just misses the time when you were all small and wobbly on your tiny feet and toes an' he'd had to chase after you, don't you worry! An' I've also thought of somethin' else – I think he'd wish he could tell you how you were, back in the day. All tiny."

"He misses me being the little girl he had to protect, is that what you are saying?"

"Sure, but it doesn't mean he ain't happy that you're no longer small an' helpless! Here," Sinclair said and lifted his book, its grey covers nondescript. "I know you're curious to the Moon an' back about what this is about." He waved with the book. "Gotta tell you, this ain't no dirty novel, in case that's what you've been thinkin'! I'm an old man, like you like to remind me every so often, so no monkey business."

"I do not care what you do with your time, Sinclair, spare me the details!" she made scandalised, but the man waved her off, chuckling.

"Ah, you young buns, all sensitive! I was pullin' your leg, kiddo, no flamin'. Now, this was one hard bugger to acquire, an' expensive to boot! But worth every dime, 'cause I reckon it's gonna make you and your Daddy very happy. Interested now, in my dirty fics?"

"What do you mean?"

"Ah, allow me to show it to you, sweet cheeks." Sinclair put his reading glasses back on, and opened the book. Its pages were filled with drawings of hands forming different symbols. Eleanor looked at it with interest.

"You guessed it, I think! It's a book about the sign language, made by some really innovative bunch. It's rare and hard to get, but it's a good guide. I wanna teach your Daddy this language, so you two can talk to each other. Well, so he can reply, actually. I know you can speak to him without words, but I also know he cannot respond, whatsoever."

Eleanor's expression lit up. "Do you mean it?"

"Sure do, honey bear! What do you say? I reckon it ain't gonna be easy for your Daddy to make the smoother moves, but he's gonna be able to communicate through the rest. I've gotten you one guide, too, so you can learn and prepare to understand your Daddy. It's gonna be far easier than writin', it's impossible for him to hold a pencil in this state. I figured-"

His air intake was cut out when Eleanor threw her arms around his neck, practically strangling him with her tight hug. All he could do was to keep his lit cigarette from her, not to accidentally burn her.

"Thank you so, so much!" she mumbled, her speech hindered by the way she had caught him. She lifted her head from his neck and, beaming, she thanked him again. She squeezed him more carefully this time, mindful not to kill him.

Sinclair returned her embrace and rubbed her back. "Don't you mention it, kid, I'm gonna be talkin' to him, too," he said, making it sound as if he had some interest in this deed, as well – though it was genuine, because he was looking forward to communicating with the Big Daddy, however peculiar it might sound.

"Yes, you two are going to be talking a lot! Your monologues are endless, anyway, it will be good to have another one to participate."

"What are you sayin', plum? Me? Talkin' much? Nah, but I bet your Daddy is gonna!"

"I hope so," Eleanor said and let go of the older man. She sat on the edge of his chair, and he moved aside to give her more space. "When do you mean to start teaching him?"

"In no time, I was just makin' sure I remembered how it all goes – I learnt this bit of a trick when I was younger. It sounded interestin', but I haven't practised in a long while, hun. I might come as a bit... ah, rusty."

"Perfect. Can you please give me my copy, too?"

"Sure, dear."

Eleanor nodded. "Thank you, Sinclair."

Sinclair smiled and patted the cover of the book."Well, I reckon you an' I, my fair lady, are gonna make one helluva happy man out of your ol' Daddy, what do you say?"

Eleanor had no words for that, but her great smile spoke volumes.

XXXXX

Outside the white house with blue roof, the sea was singing its tuneless song of crashing waves. Inside of it, the pink and yellow flowery wallpaper in the kitchen was being splashed by flying custard.

"Oh, shit!" Sinclair gasped in horror at the sight of dripping paste on the wall. He was standing by the large table in the middle of the kitchen, where Delta was carefully cutting shapes into the already spread dough that was cushioned by a generous amount of flour.

The Big Daddy emitted that rippling groan of his that resembled a chuckle, and the older man frowned at him. "Don't you make fun of me, Mister! The damned drill is straight possessed, I'm tellin' you!" He motioned frantically towards the blending mixer that had caused the vanilla cream to transform into a rocket projectile. "How in the blazing hells does this goddamn thing even work?!"

Delta put the rolling knife down and slowly wobbled to Sinclair's side. The kitchen was big, just like the entire house - which had been adapted in order to ease the Big Daddy's transition through it - but it didn't mean that he wanted to accidentally bump into something and send it crashing to the floor.

He lifted the wire whips out of the bowl of unblended pastry filling and positioned them correctly. With his other arm, he captured Sinclair's wrist, put the other's hand over the handle of the mixer and covered it with his own. He turned a bit to his side, the glass of his helmet facing the other man's face, as if instructing him to watch the indications very attentively.

Augustus nodded dutifully and peered at the huge gloved palm that was overlaying his. He felt the slight tightening of Delta's fingers, then how he moved their joined hands in circular motions. The Big Daddy moaned sharply, as if trying to punctuate the exact movement that he was executing. One of his thick fingers shifted and pressed on the green button, which made the blender stir to life.

They continued to spin their connected arms, and Sinclair hummed appreciatively, closely watching the exemplification. Delta's glove lingered some more over the businessman's hand until he extracted it. He nudged Sinclair's shoulder with the edge of his helmet, and the man flexed his neck in response, as in mustering the courage to perform the task.

He placed the tool in the right position, then started its engine. To his great surprise, no filling became airborne. "Oh, I think I've gotten it, Chief!"

Delta crooned that distant sound that whales did underwater, sounding very pleased with what his companion had achieved. Sinclair beamed at him, and rapidly turned his eyes back to his work. They needed no more of the custard to decorate the walls, they had enough of it already.

The man in the diving suit lumbered to the sink and wet a cloth. He set himself to wiping the mess off the wallpaper.

"Ah, thank you kindly, Chief, though I can assure you, I would 'ave done it myself after I was done, I swear!"

He was met with a disapproving groan.

"Wait, what's that s'pposed to mean, sport?" he responded indignantly and slightly lifted his right arm. A few droplets of vanilla burst from the bowl, and he quickly lowered the working mixer. "Ups, sorry!"

Delta's shoulders shook along with his helmet, but the sounds he offered were bubbly. Sinclair chuckled back at him.

After a throughout inspection of the mixture that would go into their pastries, Delta moved the bowl to the central table and put it next to the two big baking trays. He gave a spoon to Sinclair and kept one for himself, and the two men set themselves to pouring filling over the rectangular pieces of dough.

Augustus tried his best to place the filling how his housemate had already showed him, but he wasn't exactly the master baker. When he finished with his task – the only one that he was allowed to do with the pastries in the making – he looked up, at the humming Big Daddy.

The huge suit hindered much of his movements, but Delta was very careful in his delicate craft. He was focusing solely on the work at hand, and didn't notice Sinclair peeking at him.

The older man smiled at that sight. His friend from the ocean hadn't been designed to fold the corners of the batter, though there he was, doing it better than the experimented folk. Delta has taken a penchant to cooking, spending many hours following the detailed recipes from all kinds of books and radio shows, sometimes inventing some of his own. Sinclair wasn't one to comment on the protector's hobby, because he was more than content with the final results.

Truth be told, that big diving suit hid a great chef underneath. However reluctant he had been upon hearing Delta's initial interest in preparing a dish he had heard about over the station, Sinclair could now hardly wait for the damned pastries to go into the oven and do their job in there. He was already dying by their side, seeing them being assembled but not being able to have a taste of them yet.

It was such a curios image, to see someone who had been made to perform the gruesome duty of killing anyone that endangered his Little Sister forming small and delicate pastries. Again, he wasn't complaining – he loved anything that came from those two shovel sized hands.

It was strange how easily Augustus has gotten accustomed to his peculiar companion, to the point he sometimes forgot that the two of them looked very different, on the exterior. And, he suspected, very different on the inside, too.

Sinclair had never imagined that there could be someone quite like the one that the press in Rapture had dubbed as Johnny Topside. That man, however inhuman he looked and sounded at that moment, was overbearingly loving towards everything that surrounded him. He spent long hours preparing delicacies for the two other occupants of the house, tending to the pretty garden and the many flowers he had placed in colourful pots, tidying up around to the best of his possibilities – he was too big to perform certain activities, but he was trying his hardest to succeed. He spent quite some time alone, at home, while Eleanor was at school and Sinclair was minding his ever prospering business ventures, yet he liked to contribute in his own way to their new life, on the surface.

If he were to put a name to what the Big Daddy was doing, Sinclair would have suggested that he was playing the glorified housewife. Delta was even taking care of the laundry and needed repairs on practically anything, from a sock to a creaking door, and the businessman was surprised just how deft those gloved hands could be. He had told him that there was no need for him to do any of that, because they definitely didn't lack the funds for anything they might need and they could afford cleaning services, too, but Delta just groaned and completely ignored him.

However good he knew how to run his mouth, Sinclair had little aptitudes in the perilous domain of taking care of a house. He could build and grow the daftest of the affairs, the ones that no one would have tried their chances with, but he had no idea how to fix the shower curtain back into place.

His sense of survival had never failed him and he had managed more than half a century of living without having those skills, but he couldn't help wondering at them. Or at Delta, who took up a lot of his daily thoughts.

It was hard not to care for him, because he was such a generous spirit. 'Just like Ma',' Augustus pondered fondly, again thinking of his mother's good nature.

He struggled as much as he could to make the Tin Daddy and his daughter comfortable with their living arrangement. With him and Eleanor in mind, he had bought a fairly large house by the shore, with a splendid view over the endless blue ocean.

Sinclair was mesmerised by how drawn to living close to water he was, as long as he and his housemates were above its surface. The seagulls were their constant companions and the sound of the waves and wetting sand were the few things they heard besides the chirping of the birds and the soothing wind.

He had picked the largest terrain that had met his other demands, making sure that no one would bother them. Eleanor's school – he called it that, even if it was the State University that had allowed her to attend their courses after she had taken some tests and aced them, despite her age – wasn't too far and she could easily reach it on the bicycle she enjoyed riding. Sinclair could get to his office in the city in no time, even if he preferred spending as much time at home as he could.

The rooms inside the house were spacious, yet cosy, all themed in warm and pleasant colours. He had made sure to reserve one room for Delta, even if he didn't know if the Big Daddy ever slept, or if those moments when he laid still weren't just him resting in one place. He had never asked, but he made sure to order many books from different domains to fill the extending library of his fellows, who devoured them as if they were starved.

Sinclair, who had had the sense to freeze his business and preserve some of his wealth before he had went to Rapture, had returned home, in the United States, to an easy life. He couldn't not fret into the market, it wasn't in his genes, so he turned back to his good old ways and raised more fortune for his little mismatched fellowship and, even more of a shocker – to help Jack Ryan, who had picked them up from the lighthouse as he had been instructed by Tenenbaum before she had gone for the second dive into the ocean. Sinclair was aiding him with the paying for his five adoptive daughters' needs.

Indeed, he had developed that kind of good heart. Sinclair preferred to pretend it was just an investment, but in the end, he considered Eleanor and Delta his family. Augustus hadn't had one since his mother had died, and found little sense in having one while he had been in business - especially in Rapture. However, with experience and newly found wits, he craved even a resemblance of it. He wouldn't admit it, though some things were unavoidable.

He had never truly realised how lonely he had been, before he had welcomed, albeit forcedly, these two new people who held no blood connection to him. At first, he had thought of Delta and his drive to find his Little Sister as nothing but a means to an end, though he rapidly began to think of him as a friend.

A very close friend that had started to get dangerously near to the heart. It wounded Sinclair that he couldn't give Delta the possibility to feel the sand under his toes and the wind in his hair, but he was searching to find someone to help them.

He had had no success in that so far, but he had kept on looking. Anything for the man who had saved him from that neon lit Atlantis.

And Eleanor... well, she was like a daughter to Sinclair, even if the girl was clearly refusing to act the part. She might have adopted his surname, adjoined with her mother's, so she could enroll in the educational system without becoming a possible source of legal dispute, but she had a father - and that was Delta, the speechless man.

Nonetheless, Augustus could live with that. He knew it, deep down, that the former Little Sister liked him in a relatively manageable amount, and that he would unconditionally offer her all the parental care that he had in store.

He owed her that much, at least.

Sinclair hadn't realised that he had been staring into space, until Delta patted his forearm. He had already finished with all the pastries and he needed a hand with taking the trays to the oven.

He sheepishly rubbed the back of his head and shrugged, balancing a tray and opening the door to the heated oven, then made space for Delta to place the second. He closed the door and watched his friend set the temperature and the timer.

"So, I reckon your renowned vanilla custard puffy pastries are gonna be fine to go in... say, three quarters of an hour, right?"

The dark blue suit reverberated with a growling sound, and Augustus was certain that, if there hadn't been any helmet to obscure it, he would have seen Delta glaring.

"Okay, chief, okay, an hour! I'll let them cool, though I see no point in doin' that."

Delta shrugged and waved his huge hand at the man, but behind the thick glass of the visor, his torn and stitched lips were trembling in the futile effort of forming a smile.

XXXXX

Eleanor excused herself for the night and went to her room, leaving Sinclair and Delta to read in the living room. The radio's volume was turned low on some piano concert, and the two men stood like that for a good while, in companionable silence.

Sinclair turned to the final page of his mystery volume and read how the inspector packed his gun. Good for the bloke, what could he say – this book had been a big disappointment. The plot in itself had been good, engaging even, and the murder that was described sounded quite realistic, but the way the inspector had found the murderer had been plucked straight from his backside. It made literally no sense for the landlord to have killed the tenant, when it was more than obvious – not to the author, apparently – that the maid had been the culprit. Really, what was wrong with the writers these days? They forgot what they were saying mid-sentence? How can one be so wrong in their own story?

He looked over at Delta, who was gingerly picking up the corner of a page, then carefully moving it to the side. Sinclair glimpsed a large 7 written in bolded script, signalling the beginning of a new chapter.

"Chief, mind if we have a word?"

Delta stilled and turned his helmet towards Sinclair. He placed the bookmark back between the pages of his novel and closed it. He made a little sound and nodded.

"Thank you, I'm sorry if I interrupted your readin'," Sinclair made, and shifted to have a better view of the glowing visor of the helmet. He crossed his legs and leaned forward, towards his friend that was sitting on the other end of the couch. "Might be the modesty in me talkin', but I reckon I've gotten a stroke of geniality, sport." Delta moaned noncommittally, used to the older man's antics. "Why, chief, don't start disapprovin' before hearin' me out. I might have gotten a hold onto a bit of an interestin' book, and it gave me an idea. How would you like to talk back?"

"Mrrrr?" crooned Delta, interest peaked.

"Mhm, thought so. Well, let me tell you – I've got the perfect solution for you." Sinclair lifted to his feet. "Wait a moment, chief, I'll be back with you shortly."

The Big Daddy moved on the cushion, getting closer to the edge of it. He tried to see where Sinclair went, but the man zoomed out of the room as if he was on fire. Delta put his large palms on his knees, patiently waiting to see what his housemate meant.

A few instants later, Sinclair returned, just as fast as he had left. The house robe he wore over his shirt and shorts floated about him as he plopped back on the couch, closer to the big living suit.

He placed a battered book on the other's lap. "Have a look at it, chief."

Delta picked it up and opened at the first page, that read STANDARD MANUAL ALPHABET – GUIDE FOR SIGN LANGUAGE. His usual moan turned into a boiling sound as he flipped through the guide, seeing little hands forming letters and words. He was far less gentle than he normally was with objects, especially books, clearly excited.

Sinclair had a mind that, if Delta hadn't been confined to the suit, he would have been jumping up and down like a child in a candy store.

"I could practice with you, if you wanna," he said. "It shouldn't be too hard. We're gonna exercise and you'll get the hang of it in no time, chief. What do you think?"

He was answered with more rumbles and a slight jolt on the cushion. It seemed that Delta was really happy with the idea - even happier than he had anticipated.

"I've given your girl a copy, too."

"Mrrrr!" made Delta, sounding even more mournful than usual. Sinclair felt a twinge in his chest, and he immediately closed the distance between them.

"What's the matter, kid? Ain't you happy?"

He was surprised when one of Delta's forearms went around his shoulders, in something that resembled a single armed embrace. The noises weren't of sadness, but of emotion. Knowing that, Sinclair's face lit up and he grinned. Soon, he started chortling soulfully, patting his dear friend's thick thigh in encouragement.

XXXXX

In less than a month, the one who had become Subject Delta had mastered the sign language, being able to form whatever he wanted to express.

It had been a bit of a challenge for him and Sinclair, because the thickness of his gloves hindered a certain amount of movement and they had to find a way how to make it work. Though, together as a team, they have managed to pull something glorious out of it.

Daily, Delta spent most of his time alone at home by practising, determined to learn the language as fast as he could. He diligently memorised everything in the guide and made some improvements to further suit his particular needs, and by the time he felt comfortable to form sentences without checking if he had mimicked properly, he had learnt enough words to relate about his day.

One evening, while Eleanor was placing the final plate on the kitchen table, Delta put his hand on her shoulder. The girl turned and lowered the dish, looking at the Big Daddy's visor with a small smile. A large palm cupped her cheek and patted it, and the girl giggled, leaning into her father's gentle touch. She laid a small kiss on his glove, and he bubbled with joy.

He let go of her face and took a step back, leaving Eleanor confused.

"What is the matter, father?"

Delta raised both his hands, both palms presented at her. She peered at them, then lifted her eyes. "Father?"

The two hands started to move, and Delta mimicked the first words that he had learnt, thinking of his daughter. "I love you," he mimed gingerly, as if he was joggling with his own heart.

Eleanor's eyes widened as big as saucers. She let out a gasp and her face broke into the biggest smile her cheeks could handle. In a swift motion, she jumped in front of Delta and circled his neck with her arms, clinging tightly to him. "I love you, too, father," she said, teary, and broke into a cry of pure joy. "I love you," she repeated, and hugged him harder.

Delta returned her embrace, far gentler than her, wanting not to squish her. He patted her head and pressed his helmet to her temple, and the girl giggled watery.

She finally sounded carefree and unrestrained in showing emotion.

Sinclair watched the little scene unfold in front of him and he couldn't help his smile at the father and daughter, hugging in their kitchen. None of them noticed him peeking, too lost in their mirth.

For the first time in his selfish life, Sinclair's heart ached in front of the triumph of two broken people that had survived so much hardship, undeserving of it. He had a hand in their misery, but also had another in having paved the path for them to meet.

Oh, Augustus was so thankful to know them, too. And maybe, just maybe, there was a bit more to that.

So he, the one who had once resold that big man of metal as if he had been cattle, had nothing in him to prevent the little tear that fell down his cheek, fully rejoicing in the felicity of a father that could finally relay to his daughter that he loved her.

Oddly enough, Sinclair wanted to tell them the same, but he wasn't sure that he could, even if he had the voice to talk.

Part Two – The Bluest Eyes

As that particular day, Eleanor was visiting the five foster daughters of Jack Ryan, who didn't live too far away from them, Sinclair found himself amidst a very silent house. Jack's girls and his own (how peculiar it was to consider Eleanor as some sort of a daughter - shared with another one, of course), were frequently having sleepovers, either at their house or at their distant neighbours. It was quiet, yes, but he shouldn't be mistaken - he was glad that she had made such fast friends with the other teenagers who had offered to ease the transition for the girl who knew so little of the surface.

The girls, about Eleanor's age, welcomed her like one of their own. That shouldn't have come as a surprise - after all, they all had been sisters, at a moment - but now, it was by personal choice, not because of the slugs that they have been carrying inside their bellies.

Augustus shuddered unpleasantly. That wasn't the sort of thought to have on such a fine evening, when he could finish that scandalous detective book about the murdered mistress, found dead on the bed of the cheating husband by the man's son. Something told him that it was the boy who had killed her after he had his way with her, and knowing the author, there was bound to be some salacious description - how Sinclair loved those kinds of novels.

Mystery and filth, all in one convenient package.

Musing at how, despite reaching a certain age, he was still getting all giddy like a teenager when he was reading about stockings, Sinclair brewed himself some tea and picked up the book from the kitchen table. He made his way to the living room, where he expected that he would find Delta, his constant reading companion.

The Big Daddy was indeed there, but he wasn't holding any volume in his hand, like he usually did at that hour. He was listening intently to some syrupy story related over the radio.

Ah, just the kind that Sinclair despised.

He had never understood the passion of his friend for the romance. Seriously, he had never had and he supposed that he was a lost cause. Sinclair found them awfully unrealistic and a bit over the top. He had tried to read one of the stories that Delta had considered a masterpiece - even the critics claimed it - but when Sinclair finally finished it (after skipping many pages of it), he was left with the desire of actual action, anything palpable to happen, not to see just a lengthy description of sentiments that made him believe he had been born with the emotional range of a teaspoon. It would have been more palpitating to read about how to slaughter pigs or how to mown the lawn than that thing.

The author, at the very least, could have had the tact to add some more detail to the 'kissing the roses as the whole world burned with their desire'. Goddamn writers and their flower power rubbish! That's why romance was dead to him - who was kissing whose roses?

What exactly were those roses?

Whatever part of the body they represented, Sinclair hoped that whoever kissed them got stung.

Not too excited about the play, Sinclair took a seat on the couch, at his designated spot, the one closest to the foot lamp. He rubbed his eyes and put his reading glasses on top of his head, mentally preparing to hear whatever nonsense was being aired. The narrator over the radio had a soothing voice, so maybe it wasn't going to become an auditory torture. It was much prettier than the ones that were heard over the television, which wasn't bad.

The one thing he could agree with Delta in terms of entertainment was that reading a book or listening to the radio were far superior to watching the broadcast. The sole reason why they owned a television set was because Sinclair wanted to make sure he had as many ways as possible to sniff the market. He had spent his fair share in front of the display, but only because he had needed to see what people liked those days. He needed to know the new type of customers and how to kindly rip them off. It had been amusing, however, to see that the television programmes and the pictures had evolved and had become coloured, something that hadn't reached Rapture.

Well, since people down there had been more preoccupied with blowing each other up rather than watching the soap operas, there was no wonder why no one had looked into that technology.

Even if he wasn't really interested in the recording that was being aired, Augustus decided it wasn't a complete loss. He was sitting next to Delta and, for some reason, it was enough for him that evening.

When had he started settling for this little? What a wonder.

The Big Daddy was hugging a big pillow, holding it tightly across the metal plate that was covering some of his chest. If he hadn't had a helmet over the head, he would have definitely been holding his thumb between his lips, probably biting onto the tip in concentration.

He was so expressive for a tinned can, it was quite endearing.

Sinclair abruptly turned his head away from his friend. He was having too many thoughts in this direction, as of late, and he was starting to feel strange about them.

The narrator said something about a girl that was about to meet her end. Sinclair heard Delta making a wheezing sound and saw him clutching the pillow harder. He suspected that was the closest thing to weeping that the lad could do.

He felt a sudden tang of sorrow wash over him, knowing that under that thick fabric hid a man with a big heart. Infinitely bigger than his.

For the umpteenth time, Sinclair vowed to himself that he was going to find a way to turn his friend back into a regular person.

The radio started playing some soft jazz and Sinclair supposed it was the intermezzo. "Hey, sport, you alrigh'?"

Delta's body turned to him, still holding onto the pillow. His helmet shook.

"Why not, chief? It's the play over the station?"

The helmet cocked and bobbled. Sinclair sighed in sympathy and patted his shoulder. "Why don't you tell me all about it, hm?"

The clutch around the pillow loosened and Delta started mimicking with ample gestures, explaining the plot. Sinclair watched him attentively, deciphering the mute words that were being made by the huge hands. For this reason, he was so grateful that they have found a manageable way to communicate, because he had found that his silent companion was a great conversational mate. And boy, did they talk together a lot.

The thing with Delta was that he was very expressive, in what he wanted to say, enjoying the possibility of telling what he wanted and adding much personal insight. That being said, when Delta was finished with his fumbling, Sinclair started to feel depressed, too. He had mistaken the tragedy play for a romance. "That's one helluva sad story, chief!"

Delta nodded frantically and moaned in approval. He mimicked that it hadn't finished yet, and that it might get better.

The story resumed and the older man found himself listening to the calm voice over the station. His companion was absorbing the words, focused on the narrated novel. Even more strangely, Sinclair followed his example, wanting to hear if the two lovers had finally found each other.

Soon, he felt himself leaning into the Big Daddy, and it wasn't that bad of a sensation. The suit was radiating with warmth and he started to drift closer to Delta, who stiffened. Augustus made a quizzical sound, but his friend waved him off. His grip on the pillow tightened, however.

Not entirely unaware of his friend's distress, Sinclair did what he knew best, and that was to take a leap of faith. He moved closer to the other occupant of the couch until their arms touched, and made a motion to crick his neck on the large shoulder by his side, testing the waters. In the worst case scenario, he was going to land on the floor or he might have to say something among the lines of 'that's what friends do in Georgia, or Panama, or Earth,' or some bullshit like that.

Thankfully, Delta slowly loosened his vice like grip onto the pillow and relaxed. He let it fall into his lap, and then subtly pushed it towards Sinclair.

The older man caught the hem of the pillowcase and pulled it, gently. "Mind if I sit like this, darlin'?"

Delta's chest rumbled. He nudged Sinclair with his helmet, which could mean anything at this point, and the other man was certain that he had crossed some boundary. However, the Big Daddy slid his arm around his waist and pressed his head to his chest.

The wailing sound that Delta emitted filled Sinclair with content. He snuggled closer to his couchmate and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth that was passing through the patch of fabric over the side of the Big Daddy's chest.

The play ended and neither of them noticed it. Delta was too shocked by how Sinclair was absently stroking his leg and pressing into his body, whereas Sinclair was too happy to sit comfortably next to the huge furnace of a man. He had never realised just how much he wanted to do that.

When music started playing again, Augustus finally realised that there weren't going to be any new words. "It's ended already? Ah, my mind went a'fishin' just now an' I haven't heard the end!" He crooked his head to look at the dully glowing visor, rubbing his cheek languidly over his companion's chest. "How'd it end, dear?"

During that moment, Delta was thankful for the helmet, because otherwise, Sinclair would have noticed how wide his eyes were, gazing down at him.

Honestly, he had barely registered the end of the story. And seeing Sinclair glancing up at him, unknowingly locking their eyes, his cheeks tinted rose from something he couldn't decipher... that definitely didn't help his memory.

Augustus' face split up into a grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Damn, he could place his hand over fire and not get burned by saying he was onto a lead. Oh boy, he was so going to risk his neck over it.

Well versed in the craftsmanship of pretence, Sinclair faked ignorance and shrugged, then rubbed his chin over the other's pectoral. "Huh, weren't payin' attention, either, were you now, chief? Well, I sure hope that it'd ended better than the last part, 'cause that had been a snow storm in the middle o' summer."

Delta groaned noncommittally and motioned that he wanted to get up. Suspiring with great exaggeration, Sinclair moved aside. "Ah, pity," he commented with a smile, "you're one massive pillow, chief, with quite the filling."

He watched the Big Daddy lumbering to the door and disappearing from his sight. Augustus sighed and rubbed his temples, a bit bothered by the sudden departure.

Not a bit. A lot bit. He liked that damned heat and he certainly wanted to feel it again, all personal space may get rotten wherever it pleased.

His more rational side reasoned that maybe Delta had gone to take his book from upstairs, but after some ten good minutes, it was evident that it wasn't the case. "Ah, for the love of it," Sinclair grumbled and hopped off the couch. He picked his book up and followed the trail to the bedrooms upstairs, leaving his tea untouched.

As he had imagined, he found Delta in his room, staring at the cover of a novel. "Thinkin' complicated thoughts, are you now, chief? May I join you, Johnny?" he asked, pouring some sweet over the name that he sometimes called his housemate.

Delta patted the edge of the couch that he was sitting on. It was positioned close to a book-filled coffee table and a big bed with oversized pillows. Sinclair joined him on the cushion. "Sorry if I'd upset you, kid," he told him in a small voice. "No harm meant."

The huge hands of his friend mimicked that he wasn't, in fact, upset.

Well, if that was the case, Augustus believed it was high time he took the bull by the reins and worked his sparkling magic on his dear friend, because he didn't know if there will be another chance any time soon. He'd tried to build it in the living room, but the foundation sort of crumbled there.

He crept closer to the clad man and inhaled the flowery scent of the detergent they were using to keep the suit pristine. He positioned himself just right and looked straight into the visor, his eyes comically innocent. Not the look in them, mind it, only the sheer size. The look was all exquisitely sensual horseshit.

"Oh? Then what was it, chief?" his sultry tone lulled. "Did it bother you that I stood... like this?" Sinclair questioned and put his head back on his chest. "That I did... this?" he continued, and put his hand on top of Delta's thigh. He squeezed a few times, but then let go.

"I'm sorry, chief, if you didn't want me to do that. T'was nice to feel someone's body next to mine, is all."

Delta groaned and hugged Sinclair as if he was a big bag of potatoes. "Easy now, kid, don't squish the lights outta me!" he japed. His hand returned to the thick leg and slowly rubbed circles over it. He was playing his gamble a bit too hard, but it was worth the shot. More than worth it, considering the change in his friend's usually mournful moans.

Didn't that particular realisation hit Sinclair in all those places where no mere pal was supposed to reach. But then again, Delta wasn't just a regular buddy, but his new life and whatever those romance writers preached about. He was that, all of them.

Well, not all of them, as of yet, but Sinclair was on top of his business, the way he knew how to fiddle with it best.

The Big Daddy was staring at him, or at least his visor was. He seemed not to know what to do with his hands, so he just held onto the other' shoulders as tightly as he could without bruising him.

Taking the cue, Augustus smirked, lecherously, and ever so slowly blinked for a few times. He had had his fair share of experiences with men, not only with women, and he knew how to get to the matter's core, even if said matter wasn't all that convinced, as to say. He was persuasive by nature. He always had that little ace to play, when things didn't move forward with mere charm or trifle compliments. It still stood true that he hadn't been with anyone who had been on radioactive steroids and was stuck in a diving suit, but a man was still a man, and he knew the ways of them quite well.

So, he let his smile widen sloppily and gazed up, through thick eyelashes. His hand got a bit more insistent, kneading the clothed flesh, and it lifted closer to Delta's inner thigh, just to slip dangerously near to his crotch. The Big Daddy let out another shuddering wail and trembled, barely noticeable.

Sinclair's face lit up like a Christmas tree, pleased that he could still manage to entice even the unwilling. Or, perhaps better said, the one that didn't realise that he was willing.

"Mm, that's right, kid," he dallied as he put both hands on the sides of Delta's metal neck. "I'm think' about lettin' you in to a little secret, chief." He leaned closer, allowing his wrists to slide down his friend's chest and lower, to the cushion. "If it weren't for the helmet, sweetheart, I'd be smoochin' the life out of you, righ' now." To keep close to his words, he rose on the ball of his fists and placed a loud kiss on the edge of the visor.

Delta froze, and in that very moment, Augustus was positive that he was going to be sent flying straight onto his arse on the carpet.

There were some gambles that just didn't pay off, even with the willing.

Mercifully, the stars were shining down his alley and he didn't get any of that treatment. More so, his bottom was roughly grabbed and he was pulled over the Big Daddy's lap, and all he could do was to straddle one of those thick hips that he clutched underneath him.

He was becoming too heady for his age, Sinclair decided, but he nonetheless leaped forward once again to plant a kiss on the glass over his partner's face. He did that, over and over, astounded with how genuine it felt.

His hips were being kneaded by coarse gloves and his loins started to stir all too fast. Strikes of arousal prickled at his spine – and there went the purity of it all.

"Ah, darlin', ain't you a big fella," Sinclair muttered as his hips rolled over the thigh, testily rubbing his hardening need over it. If he hadn't been pushed by now, he suspected he wasn't about to - or prayed not to be, to all the Gods up above and under.

Faithful to his original decision, Delta's large palms cupped the buttocks that were hanging in the air and lifted his thigh between Sinclair's legs, pressing harder into him and drawing an impressed groan. "Mm, pumpkin, you little devil," he sung with an easy grin, "you're gettin' me all hot an' nasty, an' I haven't even gotten the proper feel of you! One might reckon we are bein' modest."

Well, whatever traits they were sporting right then, Sinclair had little notion of decency when he wanted something done. Delta, still as dumbfounded as before, simply let the man on top of him have his fun with whatever he was gibbering about. The businessman took it all in a stroll.

His hand brushed over the heavily clothed crotch of his hunky partner, and he palmed around it, trying to make out the shape that was hiding underneath. He squeezed viciously when he found something big underlined, hard as a hammer, to which he chuckled victoriously. Delta made a sound like never before.

"Sweet pie, you must tell me there's a way to get that beast out somehow, 'cause otherwise, I might be inclined to sit down an' cry," he slurred, voice all honey, and applied another wet kiss to the glowing glass. The grunt he got shook him, literally so, and he received the answer that he sought.

Wanting to perform the mission himself, Sinclair fumbled with the assortment of leather and harsh cloth until he made out the form of some tight buttons. Too carefully, making sure his attention teased around its real purpose, he undone them and sneaked his hand under the straps.

He grabbed the flesh with a shudder at how warm and velvety it was. The gasp that followed, even if it was meant mostly for the show, wasn't only flattery.

Sinclair had to move back a tad to ogle at the bruised and somehow lumpy looking leaking cock that undulated from the suit like a tree branch, hard enough to put a stone to shame and way too generous to belong to a regular human. Even a prize mare would have cowered in front of that snake, but how fortunate for him - he styled himself more like the bucking bronco.

"Well, I might not be all that modest as I claim, but you, sport, are just shovin' me down face first into humility," he ended with a gleeful chortle and a twist of his hand over the bulbous head of that weeping monstrosity.

The dick in his palm twitched as he stroked it luxuriously, going over the length that seemed to go on and on. He swallowed hard and had to wet his lips, suddenly dry.

For a split second, Sinclair bit on the inside of his cheek, as in thinking. He cocked his head, as if he didn't know quite what to do, yet his pearly white teeth surfaced from underneath his full lips and flashed into a broad grin. After a mischievous wink, his head disappeared lower and he captured the standing member inside his mouth.

Delta crooned awkwardly and Sinclair could do so much not to start laughing at how childishly the huge man sounded. Instead, he lapped viciously around the blunt head that was sporting a strange purple tinge and pulsing worse than his heart. His pointed tongue slid into the slit and tasted the copious amount of precome gushing out, salty like the sea, but otherwise very clean, just like the rest of him. He welcomed more of the length in and paraded it through his hot mouth, bumping the tip on the inside of his cheeks.

Gratefully, a shaking hand rested on the nape of his head, threatening to card through his locks, and didn't that make him feel smug. He backed up a notch, leaving only the tip to rest on his tongue, and after a deep inhale through the nose, Sinclair engulfed as much as he could, until the head poked into the back of his throat and a bit more. It stung like hell and he couldn't really breathe, but feeling just how much didn't fit into his mouth made his loins jump like they were on fire.

He sucked hard and hollowed his cheeks around the pulsing dick, gagging on it and swallowing helplessly, yet pushing more of it into his mouth. Oh, how he revelled in the excited groans that were echoing from that steel helmet, and Sinclair hummed onto the cock to draw more of them. He was feeling greedy, wanting to choke on the damn thing, and all he could think of was how he was going to be able walk the next day, after having ridden that thing.

As if some merciful deity has heard his pleads, the hand on the nape of his head tangled into his hair, and another one lowered on his back. Uncoordinatedly, Sinclair undid the knot around his scarlet robe and it fell loose around his sides, with the huge hand soon following under it. Something cracked and buttons flew from Sinclair's shirt, though he couldn't care less about them when he felt thick fingers cupping the soft flesh of his chest and then pull at his generous belly. Didn't that make him batty over the whole ordeal.

Delta fumbled with the mounds of skin, marvelling at how pliant and elastic they were. Sinclair was whimpering around his cock and bobbing his head with renowned vigour, his eyes staring unfocusedly at the visor of his helmet. The man was blinking hard and he was making a great deal out of showing how terribly overwhelmed by the sheer size he was, his face flushed from strain and drool escaping from the corner of his mouth.

His hand was working on whatever couldn't fit inside his mouth, the loosely opened fist stroking up to meet his lowering lips. Sinclair even possessed the audacity to let an artsy tear of effort fall from his eye, all the while smiling over the dick that he was fondling.

The gloved arm descended and caught the perky bottom that was bundled under fabric. Delta captured one of the cheeks and squeezed it hard, slightly departing it from its counterpart, earning a growl from the already panting man, who was still diligently sucking him like that had been the only thing he had ever done in his life. Warily, the Big Daddy let a finger slide between the buttocks and touch the hidden orifice.

If he hadn't had his mouth fully occupied, Sinclair would have praised his companion to no end. Wasn't that damn digit so enticing, circling around his hole, not making up the mind to either dig in or not.

The dry fingertip did push a bit and to Augustus, it felt like he had banged his arse into the doorknob. Regretfully, he abandoned the glistening cock and peered up. "I hope we've forgotten some polish in here, somewhere, 'cause I'm afraid this little friend of mine," he crooked his finger over the base of his lover's cock, "might just tear me opened, if there's none."

Delta's helmet seemed to lift, and Sinclair looked behind to see a bottle of wax on a shelf. He turned to grin at Delta, lips stark red and moist over the white pearls of his denture.

He lifted from the couch and crossed the distance to the polish vessel in a hurry, the flaps of his house robe rushing behind him. However, when he returned to his partner, Sinclair padded slowly, sinuously, smirking smugly despite the opened pink shirt and dubious boxers, the pattern of thick blue stripes over white making evident accolades over the tent of his arousal.

Delta grunted at his confident stride, and Sinclair was mentally patting himself on the shoulder for wearing ridiculous underclothes. They served their purpose, when the need presented itself, because he knew how to make fine use them. Whoever said that umbrella cloth couldn't be attractive? Not him, that was for sure.

The crimson robe fell around his ankles. He gingerly sat next to the Big Daddy on the cushion, preparing to resume his assault on the leaking cock, but he soon found himself being lifted as if he weighted nothing - which was definitely not the case.

"Oh, what are you doin', chief?" he asked innocently as he was being laid on his back, on top of the bed. He crossed his legs with a grin and wiggled his lifted foot, covered in a lengthy sock. Delta groaned from his standing position, and Sinclair chuckled as his knees were uncrossed and departed. He was being cheap, and he loved it.

His boxers were yanked off him and discarded somewhere. The mattress dipped beside his body and Augustus rolled onto his belly, to watch his friend settle next to him.

His buttocks were hauled up and smeared with some great deal of slick. Sinclair jolted at how cold it was, but soon, having had enough of the slow treatment and believing it was time for some not-so-subtle guidance, he let his own hand travel to his backside, all the while looking at his partner's visor with the same infuriating smile.

Without skipping a beat, he inserted a finger into his own hole and groaned. "Mm, chief, you'd better give me one of yours, 'cause I ain't gonna make myself proper for you otherwise," he drawled, the lilt in his voice heavy and dark.

Delta caught his wrist and pressed harder into his arse. Sinclair gasped audibly and his eyes went a bit funny. The movement repeated, having his hand conditioned to keep thrusting into himself, relentlessly. He twisted his fingers the way he knew he enjoyed it, and he closed his eyes from the pleasure of having his insides rammed so dubiously.

His hand was yanked back abruptly and replaced by a much thicker digit, one that could have easily been as big as two or three of his. Oh, how glorious he stretched over that fire log, Sinclair mused and moaned some more, pushing to lower himself to the knuckle. He bucked forward and back on it, jolting at the forceful expansion that kept on delivering.

Another finger made the plunge along with more slick and thrust just that much deeper into him, turning the Panamanian into a mush of wails and sobs. He rolled his hips, making himself twitch. "That's it, uff - big boy, ah, just where you were," he canted as the third finger joined the others, stretching him to a point he had never thought possible, and praise all the lordly bollocks, didn't that hurt just heavenly.

Sinclair was feeling his heart pumping right into his ears, the pain of having his arse torn apart and the inevitable jamming into his prostrate making his head spin like he was drunk on something really potent and strong. The sides of his abdomen were grasped by the other hand. They were pulled and squeezed, making him groan even louder, pushing back as hard as his hips allowed into the fingers that were torturing him so perfectly, and then bucking into the mattress, catching the tip of his cock into the sheets.

"Oh Go- ah, fu-uck, kid, like this, do tha-aah," Sinclair pattered hotly, barely able to form something more coherent than this. He was trembling with exertion already and he was seeing white from clamping his eyes shut so tightly. His hips just snapped on their own accord, erratically chasing after the pumping hand inside him. The heat was coiling in the pit of his stomach and Augustus put a hand on Delta's thigh, shakily patting it as warmth coiled and twisted into his guts.

Suddenly, he willed himself to open his eyes and look at the ever glowing visor. His mouth fell slack opened, between grunts and moans. "Please, honey," Sinclair tarried, "j-just stop, y'all gonna make me cum - ahh, fuckin' hell, Johnny," he puffed, all breath cut short when those fingers got even deeper and his erection was pressed harder into the mattress. Delta made a wheezing sound as his leg was grabbed roughly, and Augustus grounded his hips hard into the hand as he came with a strangled sob.

Sinclair had registered the thud of his forehead into the soft sheets because he had done it, but how he had gotten on his back was a complete mystery. Cheeks flushed and eyes slightly wet, he looked at Delta's hovering form. All he could do was smirk widely as if he'd had a stroke, his muscles too relaxed to form a different grimace.

Delta rubbed his cheeks and Sinclair chuckled, aching everywhere so pleasantly. He grabbed the dick that was flagging him and gave it a harsh stroke. "Sugar tart, you're like an ol' maiden's filthiest dream," he said and chortled, his ears ringing. Augustus couldn't recall a moment when he had felt quite like this, so blissfully fuzzy.

He spread his legs wider, uncoordinatedly, and flashed a handsome grin. "Now, big boy, you oughtta get inside me, I'm beggin' you," he sung, even if he wasn't certain he could really handle anything more. But it didn't matter, not when he already had the prospect of really not being able to move the following day.

The Big Daddy wasn't that participative, and Sinclair's smirk turned into a dramatic pout. He slid a bit lower on the sheets and rubbed his inner thigh onto the neglected cock of his partner. He sighed like a wounded princess. "No, chief, don't do that to me," he muttered. "Come on, will y-aaah, Jesus!" he growled, feeling the large blunt head pushing into him.

Sinclair grinned with all his teeth. "Atta boy... uff!"

His eyes closed again as the cock slowly impaled him. It was so hard to relax, having that unnaturally thick dick poking into him, but he fought to welcome as much as it fitted inside. He was finding himself waking back to life, his state of arousal heightening despite everything.

It was clear that he was getting hard again, but damn, wasn't the dear Delta moving like he might shatter. "Sweetheart," Augustus perked as they momentarily stilled to let him get adjusted, "I know you haven't taken me on a wine an' dine first, but cut the courtesy crap, honey."

He got a little bit of shifting, but Delta's achingly slow motions didn't really pick up. If anything, they seemed like they've stuttered. Sinclair groaned frustrated and glared. "Don't mess with me, kid, ain't really sportive of you. Get on with it, fuck me," he encouraged and rolled his hips. The length inside him advanced a notch or two, still not fully in, though that was more like giving water to an alcoholic than giving solace to the damned.

Sinclair lifted on his elbows, something he wasn't sure how he had managed, and presented his best scowling expression. "Jo-," he started, but he was rammed in so hard, his spine arched and his back hit the mattress as if he were a puppet.

He opened his mouth, wanting to sing some curses, but it was clamped shut by a big palm. Augustus' eyes widened unexpectedly, but under the glove, he was grinning like he'd won the lottery.

Delta leaned forward, not quite wholly sheathed in. He pushed to the best of his capability, harder and harder with every pace. Sinclair was all loud moans and bubbling nonsense, his voice a breathless shriek under the hand that was muffling him. He was breathing through his nose, haphazardly, and his eyes were staring through tears, rolling and struggling to focus on the huge figure that was thrusting into him, impossibly deep.

He was practically feeling that dick into his throat, and that braying was only picking up. Sinclair was begging under the confines over his mouth, and he bit into the glove. One of his hands scrambled into the sheets and the other grasped Delta's forearm. His fingers pushed into the cloth, probably hurting his partner, but the older man was barely realising doing it.

The glove over his face shifted and Sinclair was overjoyed to be able to talk again. "Of my God, chief," he rasped, and he had a very dirty litany ready to spill, but it was all pushed back inside as a thumb invaded his mouth and the rest of the palm grabbed his jaw.

His lips split into an open smile, welcoming the entire finger and biting on it. The digits into his neck tightened, chocking him, and he started sucking onto that thumb, greedily lapping over it as if it was a lollipop.

The bemoaning that rumbled from Delta was deafening, filling the room. That was endearing in its own way, sounding like a broken engine, and oh, how Sinclair revelled in the sound. He let his eyes slip shut once more, leaving himself prey to whatever was being done to him, to the pounding that was driving his insides straight up to his gullet, strangling him and making it so deliciously hard to breathe.

The dizziness made his head swoon and his cock was twitching and jumping on his stomach, neglected and crying like an abandoned puppy. Oh, he was feeling that burn through his entire body, and his toes curled and his raised legs kicked blindly, barely containing the overload.

There was a screeching sound and an even deeper thrust penetrated Sinclair. The hottest load spilled into him, making him gag over the thumb that pressed more into his mouth. The pulsing inside his arse seemed to go on forever, coating him and gushing out around the edges of his rim. His canal tightened painfully and he gave out, too, coming again over his belly with little recollection of the action, besides a sudden light around the edges of his vision.

His legs gave out and dropped down on the bed, his soles clacking on the floor. Delta retreated, shakily, and a generous amount of cum gushed out of Sinclair's reddened and gaping hole. "Ha, damn," the man suspired, his mouth once again unrestrained. The easy smile returned to his face, even if his breathing was still rugged and hissing.

"Precious honey bee, you're one fine piece o' work," Sinclair gasped, his chest heaving. He shielded his eyes and allowed his smile to drift into a lazy grin. "Made a righ' mess outta me, chief," he drawled on, lungs struggling to adapt to functioning normally.

Oh, how he was craving for a smoke to fill them after that mind numbing fucking, but he wasn't that sure he still had the energy to drag himself to his room and grab the tobacco case. And what if it wasn't there? The horrors!

Next to him, Delta wasn't faring much better, but all he did was to wheeze as he rotated to sit on the mattress. He balanced his two large barrels, now depleted, towards the head of the bed, resting his back across them. He turned his visor to look at the face of his friend, all flushed and lips wet from the saliva that had drooled while he had been sucking his thumb and... whatever else. The Big Daddy felt something in him stir and churn, very strangely considering how little his body usually responded to his thoughts. He made a fast gesture to start tucking himself back into the suit, but the older man beat him to it.

"Oh, nah, you don't, pickle pot," Sinclair admonished as he grabbed the appendage and gave it another excited yank, albeit tired, then let it rest on his thigh, "I might be as prehistorically as your little girl likes to relay, but I'm fairly certain I still have some spunk stashed... somewhere. Hopefully! Humour me an' just let me find it." He chuckled hoarsely and pressed both hands on Delta's helmet, forcing his partner to look at him.

'Huh,' Sinclair hummed in his head, gazing at the glowing glass. Day by day, his life was giving him more reasons to believe he was living a humongous irony because, in that moment, he might have started to understand what the author had meant in that novel of Delta's, the one with the kissing of roses.

Slowly, he took a sitting position. Inhaling deeply, he approached his friend. "You know, puddin' pie, I might be repeatin' myself like a broken record, but all I wanna do right now is liftin' that helmet of yours and smotherin' your mouth senseless."

The Big Daddy grunted, sounding strangled.

That had been a bad move, then. "I've already told you this, but you still ain't listenin', are you," Sinclair muttered sadly and stroked the side of the grill around his friend's neck.

Delta made an attempt to push his shoulders back, wanting to unglue the man from him. He had no idea why he let them get into their current position, nor why Sinclair had been so excited to have his way with him, of all the living creatures on the planet. Whatever they have done – he was afraid to give a name to that daft shag, because it pained him to think that he had been driven into scratching a random itch and not into something real. That it had meant more than that. Alas, he was sure that it had merely been just a madness of the moment on the businessman's part, who must have found him very convenient.

He could live with that notion, the tin man vowed to himself, even if he was desperate to believe it wasn't so. Indeed, Augustus wasn't doing anything to confirm his thoughts, but still, Delta preferred not to get flustered and give into the Panamanian's persistency.

There was nothing to see underneath, Delta repeated in his head, and he couldn't voice it, nor could he mimic it. Sinclair was too close to him to be able to move his hands, and the man was dead set on uncovering something unnecessary that would only disgust him.

Augustus didn't relent, however, and pressed on. "Johnny, sweetheart, you don't believe me if I tell that I love you?"

Delta stilled his incessant pushing away and if it could, his jaw would have dropped.

"I don't know what they've done to you, my love, but I don't care. Honestly, sport, there's nothing that could drive me away from you, I can assure you o' that much." He smiled gently, no slyness behind his intentions. "You thinkin' that I might change my mind if I saw you, is that?"

Delta, starting to shiver, nodded, or more like bowed, because he couldn't bend his neck with the suit on. He didn't want to be seen like that, not by that man who had offered him so much, for whom, despite himself, he had fallen so deeply, from the first gab over the wireless radio. Back then, he hadn't known who the one behind the voice had been, how he'd looked or what his real purpose had been, but that Southern drawl to the warm speech had given him the strength to press forward towards his goal, to find his daughter.

Oh, he loved him too, more than a heart caged in metal had the right to, and it freed his soul to hear that the sentiment was returned and he hadn't been just a jostle.

Huh. Even if it was true, Sinclair was going to eat his words and run a mile if he ever saw what he had just humped like a rabid broad, Delta reflected.

But those bright hazel eyes were sparking a little green in the light that he was emitting and his full lips were curled up comfortingly. They stood like that, one clothed leg unmoving under the confines of the other's naked thighs, until Sinclair sighed bitterly. "Well, have it your way, sport," he said and started to move back. "Can't say I haven't tried." He chuckled, trying to defuse the tension, and began running his hands over the big man's chest. He was cowering away, in a way, wanting to wrap up his failed attempt.

Delta grunted sorrowfully, making the southerner's eyes shoot up with worry. The sound wasn't from what was being done to him, but because of his final decision.

Sinclair had to know - he didn't deserve to live in a lie, imagining he was anything but a monster with a strange suit. He had to know, so he could simply keep his distance. It had been nice, while it lasted.

He lifted his arms to unscrew the bolts around his neck, to free himself from the cage. He shut his eyes, as tightly as he could, and blindly opened the clasps.

He felt Augustus' hands over his, helping him with the task.

The helmet was finally up and discarded on the bed. The relatively chilly air of the room enveloped his overly sensitive skin, but he kept his eyes closed, just as before.

Delta wasn't sure he was entirely capable of crying anymore, though when he heard the sound of sudden intake of air next him, he wished to be struck down by lightning.

Warm fingertips touched his translucent cheek, and he was so startled, he squeezed his eyes even tighter. It ached so damn bad, but he really didn't want to see a thing.

"Honey peach, open your eyes, I'm beggin' of you," Sinclair said in his sweet tone.

In spite of himself, Delta opened them, accepting the reality.

He had expected to see Sinclair grimacing, but the man was watching him as if the disfigured creature had won the vanity contest.

His homely hazel eyes were turning golden as they roamed over the plains of Delta's face. The fingertips trailed smoothly over the raggedy line of his clenched jaw, to the staples that ran from amidst his split and torn lips towards his sharp cheek bones, visible where they protruded from the muscles over them. The skin had eaten up some parts of the metal bars, making them its own, and the supple cheeks were lumped with steel that was erupting from underneath the bruised flesh.

Sinclair took into the butchered then stitched into place aspect of the man's lower face, his mouth looking like it had been ripped apart and then put together without looking at it. The mandible must have been broken to make it so tightly attached to the rest of the face, more staples connecting the shrivelled bone splinters so they didn't break the skin.

The poorly sewn chap was peppered with the trimmed notion of a beard, growing neatly from wherever roots remained, and the black hair that still looked somewhat luxuriant and quite thick, curled haphazardly over the scarred forehead. The locks were punctuating a round bullet mark, burnt around the edges.

Sinclair didn't let his gaze linger too much on it. He returned to look at the stapled lips and the very short facial hair. "Now, I know who's been using my shavin' foam! An' here I was, thinkin' it was some sort of upstandin' ghost," he jested and finally looked into the expressive eyes of his beloved friend, staring in disbelief at him.

"Oh, Johnny, I'm merely jokin'," Augustus muttered and finally cupped both cheeks in his palms, stroking them with his grubby fingers. "Jus' as I've imagined," he continued, pleased with himself. "You have the bluest eyes under the mighty sun, chief, an' they're jus' that much prettier than the sky."

The lopsided brows on Delta's forehead twitched in confusion. Sinclair chuckled and did the unthinkable - he pressed his warm lips over the misshapen ones, gently kissing them like they would shatter. He left a slow reverent trail of little pecks all over the scarred jaw and to the lumpy cheeks, then to the split up brows to the scar from Lamb's bullet, the one that she had made Delta shoot into his own head.

He lifted up on his elbows, to peer again into those cerulean eyes that reminded him of a still ocean. He kissed the crooked nose that must have been straight as an arrow once, then smiled indulgently.

"My beautiful, gorgeous Johnny," he whispered and kissed his half stitched mouth and licked his crumpled lips. "You're such a handsome man," he said, and Delta's throat vibrated.

"Mm, you are," Augustus insisted. "You have the perkiest little nose and it's so soft," he whispered and bumped their noses, neither of which could have qualified as being 'small'. "You have the sharpest cheeks, only a noble from your novels should benefit o' them." He ran his fingertips over them, gently circling their contour. His teeth nibbled down their sharp edges.

"You have the deepest eyes that I could jus' lose myself in 'em, over and over, 'till I drown and can't breathe," he added and pecked the corners of his eyes.

"An', pumpkin pie, you've got the hottest mouth I've ever had," Sinclair muttered heavily and bent to give him a wet kiss that was filthier than anything they have done in the past while. And that – that was telling something.

Delta was not able to return the kiss, not with his lips sewn together. His eyes squeezed shut and he struggled to reciprocate however he could, to do anything to show how much it meant to him. He lifted his arms, too big and clumsy at the moment, and hugged Sinclair to his chest. His hands groped at the skin that was only covered by the opened shirt that had somehow remained on Augustus' back, otherwise naked, save for his socked feet. He meddled with the soft belly and the hips of his partner as passionately as he could, finer movements rendered impossible by the thick gloves.

His efforts were rewarded by a heated lick to his butchered chin, punctuated by a scorching moan. Sinclair's eyes were terribly dark and glazed over as he looked again into his blues, who weren't really anything but black pupils bloomed widely right then. The older man chuckled, his mouth red and cheeks, even more so.

"You're the finest man I've ever seen, love, an' I shall do my damndest to get you outta this suit an' give you what you deserve," he spoke, voice harsh like a predator's. His gaze was filled with unadorned lust and a danger that only spurned Delta to hold onto him tighter, shielded from the storming tide. "We've went places, like I've promised you, an' I'll take you even further, to see the whole wide earth an' feel a' it has to offer to you, sweet pea." He chortled, darkly. "Oh, my big lover boy, I shall give you the world."

Sinclair shifted to straddle the man underneath him, finding himself awfully eager to follow the wave of heat that had enveloped him like a storm, once again. His body just seemed to forget that he wasn't all that young anymore, but he was more than ready to go with the flow, even if he might rupture something.

Awkwardly, Delta motioned for the discarded helmet, as if he had had enough of breathing the fresh air, but the older man shook his head, grinning viciously.

"No, no, no, ol' Johnny boy, don't let me without this beautiful mug o' yours," he said as he grabbed the aroused prick that was sticking on his back. He positioned it under his entrance, looking positively maniacal. "Call me demented, sweetheart, 'cause I don't know how it'll work, but I plan on fuckin' myself raw on you until I make your blue eyes see the brightest stars indoors," he purred and impaled himself back onto the hard dick of his wide-eyed partner, who scrambled to catch his hips and push himself just that much deeper.

He might very well have a heart attack if he kept on with it, Sinclair pondered, but looking at the face of his beloved and shagging that dick into self-oblivion wasn't that much of a bad ending.

Well, if he did survive it, he wouldn't mind doing it again, over and over until he did make the big croak and kick the bucket – this passion in his heart was something he was sure that it could never grow stale on him.

* * *

A/N: Tada, that's that for now. I hope that you've enjoyed the first part, I will add the second chapter as soon as possible, because it only needs some tender care, as to say. I hope that you have enjoyed this, and please, let me know what you think of the story! I'd appreciate it very much!

I could say 'would you kindly leave me some feedback', but I guess that's a bit too pushy. Anyway, thank you very much for reading!

Until the next time, ta-ta!


	2. 2 - The Doors of the Grave

A/N: Morning'! Here is the next instalment of this story that I really hope that you will enjoy. It is much about new things and misunderstandings, but I'm not going to spoil anything.

Please, let me know what you think of this story, it brings me great joy to see feedback on what I write. Thank you kindly for reading, leaving me a word or any form of appreciation. And most importantly - please, enjoy!

As per warnings, they are pretty much the same things as in the previous chapter – the second part will get very graphic. Also, language and I think that's about it. Oh, and the disclaimer, that too – I own nothing besides the plot and whatever backstory I've made up.

That being said, off we go...

* * *

Chapter 2 – The Doors of the Grave

Part One – A Man's Choice and a Girl's Misunderstanding

It was one of those Saturday afternoons when the house with blue rooftops was bubbling with mirth. Of course, that wasn't uncommon in there, but the day wasn't just any other day for the occupants of the said house - it was the washing day.

However, they were never washing any clothes on Saturdays, not in truth. But they were washing a certain someone.

It was that day of the week when Augustus Sinclair would scrub the entire exterior of Delta's suited body and soap the rough fabric that shielded his limbs. Then, after a throughout basking in the gentle sun that had surpassed the middle of the sky, the half Panamanian would polish the clean armour of his companion until it shone brighter than the purest gold and he could see his reflection in it rather prettily – if he could say so himself.

Some good while before, when they had finally reached the surface and moved inside their new home, Augustus had taken upon himself the task to help his Rapture companion to get rid of all the grime and blood that got stuck on his armour. At first, Delta had been reluctant, but it was so much easier for a man that wasn't bulked with a diving suit to reach around and unglue slug shells and whatever had gotten smacked on him and crusted over his joints. With time, they have started to enjoy this easy routine in the well kept back garden of their house by the ocean, and with their newly found attraction towards one another, the mundane act of cleaning turned into something positively fun.

It was a bit like washing a car – more like a tank, Augustus provided - only that the vehicle at hand was splashing him back and getting him soaked in soapy water. Delta found it very amusing, drenching Sinclair's clothes until they stuck to him like a second skin, and it was even more pleasurable for the older man, knowing what usually followed. More often than not, the moment the polish on the armour dried, Delta picked up his housemate as if he was a feather and shoved him back inside, where Sinclair had his very dirty way with him.

Well, that wasn't going to be the case that day, because Eleanor was quietly humming to herself while reading on the porch and it wouldn't do to witness her father and their friend behaving like teenagers in heat. The weather was warm, but their minds hadn't fried yet - they didn't want to scar the poor girl's brain. She had enough on her plate as it was.

So, Sinclair limited himself to meticulously sponging and then rinsing with the garden hose, and Delta kindly refrained from playing with the water.

No matter the restraints, it was still a perfectly enjoyable Saturday activity.

If he were to be frank, Augustus found something quite bonding in this. He would have done it anyway, even if he hadn't had a fascination for his friend. He would have done it because he didn't entertain the idea of having the wobbling diving suit rusting or smelling oddly of fish on his floral patterned couch.

Or, at the very least, that was what he was telling himself, when he was thinking of his peculiar weekly routine.

The facts were a bit different from what he was making up. The moment Sinclair had seen Delta's face, free from the confines of his helmet, and how, despite having most of his mouth stapled shut and wearing sharp marks from the many procedures done to transform him into a brainwashed protector, the Big Daddy did whatever he could to pretend that those scars didn't exist, that he wasn't a slave to a cursed existence.

That he was a real man.

Delta took great measurements in making himself proper every day, carefully washing the outer skin of his gloves and wiping the visor of his helmet after cleaning it with the window spray. He would take off his helmet and adjust his dark, unruly hair, hiding the form of the bullet that had ripped though his head with some of the chopped, wavy bangs. He shaved whatever he could of the patches of beard that grew on his hollowed cheeks, skin stretching on his sharp bones and rising over the staples of his mouth.

He couldn't remember what he had looked like before, only that he must have had the same bright blue eyes and black hair. Even before he had allowed Sinclair to see who was hiding under the helmet, he had dutifully maintained himself, ignoring that having his lips stitched together wasn't normal and it hurt when he lifted his chin to fit the razor under his jaw.

No matter how much they bothered Delta, those technicalities mattered little to the businessman, who found nothing in need to be judged as anything but good old stubbornness in front of fate. Didn't he know a few things about that, himself.

To Sinclair, the mutilated visage belonged merely to another human being that was caged in a coffin of fabric and metal. He was saddened to see the torment that his companion had to go through every moment of his existence, that much was true, but not once had he thought that he was hideous. Only distorted, maybe, but to the older man, Delta was beautiful in a way no one was.

He enjoyed kissing the marred skin, gently as not to harm it, and stroke it with affection. Seeing the trimmed hair made him unbelievably proud of his partner that was refusing to give in to his condition. The Big Daddy, just by doing that, was giving his fair share of insults to those who had turned him into what he had become. He was taking care of himself, however he could in his particular state, and he was living his life as if it was worth a damn.

Quite honestly, to Sinclair, it was very much worth it.

Oh, how deeply he felt for that sweet girl and that bucket of rust - just an endearment, because Augustus could see himself in the sparkling metal of the diving suit.

Along with his young daughter, Delta had taken up a very dusty part of the older man's heart. They were the family that he had never had, not since his mother had died and left him alone under the peeling sun of Panama.

Left with his musing, he didn't realise that the hose had shifted, making the torrent reflect towards his face. He was startled by the water that got right into his eyes and let out an undignified yap.

Eleanor chuckled, having heard the man jumping up like a scared girl, and Delta echoed her laughter, sounding a bit like a dolphin. Sinclair groaned and wiped his face with the towel that he had left on the picnic table by his side, along with the sponge. "Ha, ha, ain't you a droll pair," he grunted humourlessly, but soon found himself reciprocating their jolliness.

Darn it, how he wanted to jump that Big Daddy in that exact moment, when he was sounding so carefree and happy.

A man of certain status and experience, Sinclair found himself renewed with way too much vigour for his age whenever he was around his dear companion. He made very good use of that energy, engaging in all sorts of sordid activities whenever the circumstances allowed it, such as when Eleanor wasn't home. And when she was, only that they had to take great prevention to silence Sinclair, who had no idea what it meant to just shut up and keep quiet.

That was a distracting thought to have when the girl they were raising was just behind them, but Augustus kept his smile on and shifted uneasily. Delta made a subtle wave, noticing that the other man was getting a tad flushed. In turn, he was presented with a stick of the tongue.

Eleanor, thankfully, was no longer watching them.

They had just finished with the last layer of shine when a familiar car pulled into their back yard. All three occupants of the house turned to look at it, recognising the vehicle, one of the very few that were allowed to enter the propriety. It belonged to another survivor of Rapture who was always welcomed to their home, but who usually called before coming over.

Just as expected, Jack Ryan hopped off the pickup truck, but two other people descended as well.

"I'm so sorry to drop by unannounced! I took the liberty to bring some guests, but I figured you won't be too bothered," Jack said, waving at them. The brown haired man was wearing one of his ridiculous, knitted sweaters, very similar to the one that he had had on him when he had come to check the signal from the lighthouse to the Hellhole where he had been created. That was how he had found Sinclair and Delta, after they had reached the surface with Eleanor and some Little Sisters, whom they have returned to their real parents.

Measuring the young man up, Sinclair smiled. He peered over his shoulder, to see whom he had brought, and his smile widened. He leaned to mock a loud whisper into Delta's helmet. "Now, tell me, Chief, has my mind gone a' loony or is that our Mamma Goose that I'm seein'?"

The clinical gaze of Brigid Tenenbaum fixed Sinclair, who promptly put a hand on Delta's shoulder, as if holding himself from fainting. He wasn't, but the man was all in for a show when all eyes were on him.

"Good day, Herr Sinclair, Herr Delta," she saluted stiffly, then turned to the girl. "Young Eleanor. It is good to see that you are in good health."

"Ta, we're in a damn fine shape, thank you very much, but we sure are elated to see you! An' seems like you've brought a... friend with you."

"Yes," she replied and signalled to the other man that was towering over her shoulder. "That is Herr Charles Milton Porter, he had returned from Rapture with me and the Little Ones left."

Sinclair's grin dropped in intensity at the mention of the stranger's name. If his memory served him well – and it usually did - Porter had been the one who had created Minerva's Den, the heart of Rapture's programming system. He might be wrong – once again, doubtfully – but he recalled that he had detained that man years before, when Andrew Ryan had decided to listen to the whimper of a jealous colleague of the mathematician.

If both of his assumptions were right, fate was a mulling harlot to chase after him even so many leagues away from the moist hole that was Rapture.

But also, in the same linearity, Sinclair remembered that he had sold him off to become a Big Daddy.

Well, rented. Whatever, he had gotten money out of him in some way.

But now, the black man was looking him straight in the eye.

"Mister Sinclair," Porter said firmly, his voice a bit raspy, but fairly audible. "Good to make your acquaintance," he added and extended his hand.

As he shook it and felt the warmth of that palm in his, realisation dawned upon Sinclair.

Had that man not been transformed into a Big Daddy, or had he been returned to normal? Sinclair's eyes darted to Tenenbaum, and she nodded curtly.

'Damn,' he thought, impressed beyond words, 'the cabbage kalduny's done it again.'

Something moaned excitedly by their side, and they all turned to see Delta waving happily at the little crowd. Tenenbaum smiled kindly at him, the way that she did to her little ones, and made a small movement of her head.

The scene stilled for some good instants, no one saying a word and all looking at each other. Porter watched the big creature with a tinge of fright and Delta was beginning to feel the need to either dart into action or hide behind Sinclair, who was gazing at Tenenbaum like she was an unattended cash register.

Jack soon surfaced and yanked Sinclair's fist into an abrupt shake, then grasped the Big Daddy's huge hand and repeated the motion. It was something that he religiously did every time he visited them.

"E-hey, aren't you shiny today, Johnny!" he exclaimed, making light to defuse the sudden tension. He might have been made in a tube, but he was more perceptive than many.

Quite unfazed by how strangely the people in the small crowd were roaming their eyes from one to the other, Eleanor made her straight way to them and hugged Tenenbaum who, surprisingly, didn't flinch.

Sinclair's smile froze back into its usual width, being the first to summon his common sense. "Why, caught us righ' in the middle of polishin'! But where are my manners!" He turned to Eleanor. "Sweetheart, you go with your Daddy an' show our guests in, will you? I shall be with you shortly."

His hazel eyes darted to Jack's, who nodded and then looked up. "Let me help you, 'Gus," he said, remaining behind as Eleanor and her father took Tenenbaum and Porter to the house.

Sinclair looked at Jack. "I believe there must be some story that I might wanna hear, Jackie dear. But first, be a darlin' and put those sponges in the bucket."

Jack did as he was told, all the while frowning, as if he was phrasing in his head what he was about to say. He felt Sinclair's eyes burning into the nape of his head, so he faced him. "You're curious about what's going on."

"Oh, you bet I am."

"Okay. So, you see, 'Gus, it's a bit of a short story, really," Jack began as he picked up the supply bucket. "I've got Tenenbaum banging on my door in the middle of the night, all wet and sandy, saying that she had returned from Rapture and her bathysphere had washed ashore. I don't know how she had redirected its course, but I had to move the damn thing from the beach, so it wouldn't stick out." He scratched his forearm, a bit embarrassed of his exaggerated strength. "She said she had to do something, and she asked me to look after her girls. Of course she had brought more rescued Little Sisters, and we'll have to figure what's with every one of them. I've gotten my girls to talk to them, they are currently at my place. I think they are orphans, some of them at least, but my girls are looking into it."

"We'll see what's with'em," Sinclair made impatiently. "Go on."

Jack idly rubbed his neck, the chain tattoo on his wrist sticking out from underneath his sweater. "Yeah, so she told me she'll be back soon, but that I'm not to speak to you about her. I asked why, but she said it was important that you didn't know. She did ask if Johnny, well – she said Delta, but you get my point – is still alive, and I said yes."

"And?"

"And she all but kissed me, 'Gus. It was... strange."

"Huh, no wonder, Brigid's always been more frigid than a cold room," the older man huffed. "An' what's with Porter?"

"The Doctor showed up with him today and demanded that I take them to your house. That's all I know, really."

Sinclair nodded sharply. "Alrigh', Jack, thank you for tellin' me."

"Yeah," Ryan replied blandly. "Hey, could you shed some light for me, 'Gus? Why was this Porter guy looking so strangely at Johnny?"

"I think, an' hope, it's from the same reason why ol' Brigid wanted me not to know she was back."

"Um, okay... and why is that?"

"Jack," Augustus interjected. "Do you like mystery novels?"

"I'm not awfully fond of them, really. I prefer a straight told story, with no twists in it."

Sinclair chuckled and patted his shoulder. "Well, this time, I think that we'll both be enjoyin' the twist. Hopefully."

XXXXX

Sinclair had to admit, with both hands over the heart, that Jack Ryan was a tart.

No, not in the way that anyone would presume, but in another. So used to living with five young girls that called him father and sometimes driven him into a corner, the man had developed a very obscure ability that made him sense when he had to haul someone somewhere else and keep them from hearing what they shouldn't.

That is to say, he had also developed the capability to know when he was supposed to scram as well.

For these very wrong reasons, Sinclair believed that Jack was a perfectly sweet person. He knew what to do better than any trained dog.

However heartless and rude that little remark sounded, he really liked the bloke. Ryan's son was honest and very diligent in all his ventures, not cowering from any hardship or menial work. He had formed some sort of friendship with the older businessman, whom he had tipped in the ways he was supposed to behave around a teenager who didn't like him awfully much.

Sinclair enjoyed thinking that Eleanor might consider him at least something that equalled to that drunkard uncle that no one wanted at their birthday parties, but that was not the moment to ponder on that.

As Jack was keeping busy with Eleanor and Delta in the kitchen, Augustus grabbed a pitcher of water and showed their guests to the living room.

The three adults sat around the coffee table, none uttering a word. Mister Porter fretted over the edge of his coat and Tenenbaum looked around, taking in the tastily colourful room.

"You have such a big house," she said idly, making conversation.

Sinclair was astounded that she had begun by saying something that was close – yet a bit too far - to what was widely accepted as being conversational, which was a little detail that his mind couldn't provide him with, from their former encounters.

He had always believed that the woman wasn't quite right in the head and thought her the kind that would talk about the fascinating installation of rigor mortis at a funeral, but he had never wasted an opportunity to talk to her. She was a brilliant prodigy in her domain and the perfect inadequate in all the others, but Augustus had had some interesting chats with her, while they had been in Rapture. Most of them had taken place when she had been working with the tartest of them all, dear Frank Fontaine, but also when she had returned to save the new Little Sisters.

Keeping his smile up, Sinclair opened his golden tobacco case and offered his guests a cigarette. As expected, the woman took one without a word and Mister Porter declined. After lighting Tenenbaum's cigarette and then his own, hoisted up in its usual holder, Sinclair finally broke the silence. "Thank you kindly for the observation, Doctor," he said amiably and took a drag from the cigarette. "Yet, as much as I would love to hear you complimentin' my fabulous wallpaper, I reckon you have somethin' else on your mind."

"Yes, Herr Sinclair," Tenenbaum agreed, thankful to be spared of the pleasantries.

"Ah, but Brigid," Sinclair , "I've asked you to call me Augustus."

"And I will not."

"Well, have it your way. So, straight to business, I believe." He leaned forward, resembling a shark. "I have this interestin' notion that you have somethin'... ah, juicy to tell me, Brigid."

The woman exhaled a considerable amount of smoke, then looked at the black man by her side. "I believe you are familiar with Herr Porter's situation."

"Somewhat," Sinclair replied cautiously. "But I'm thinkin' you might wanna remind me of it."

Before Tenenbaum got to open her mouth, Porter beat her to it. "After you've rented me off to Fontaine Futuristics, I was converted into an Alpha Series Big Daddy Protector," the man retorted, tone hard to place between indifferent and remorseful.

Sinclair's face showed no change of expression, keeping it warm and opened like he always did, but the way the mathematician had said that phrase prickled at some sensible chords.

"I've been put in one of those costumes, but they didn't give me any Little Sister to take care of, so I wasn't mentally bonded in any way, besides the initial conditioning," Porter explained further on. "I've been placed into cold storage for some years. Doctor Tenenbaum reactivated me and took me back to the surface land."

"I've found a way to undo splicing. And the mental conditioning, too," Tenenbaum stated proudly. "Herr Porter is the living proof."

Porter watched the half Panamanian businessman, carefully studying his very well composed persona. It was a surprise to see the homely smile subtly curl into the look of a famished carnivore, but he had heard of his ruthless endeavours. In Rapture, among the few pieces of gossip that reached his ears, one was about how it was better to have both legs amputated without anaesthesia than to owe Sinclair anything or request for his strangely indispensible services.

While he had been in Persephone, Porter hadn't seen Sinclair even once, but his name had been on everyone's lips. Tenenbaum had only confirmed that Sinclair, whom he had never really interacted with, was a shrewd character that it was best advised not to have anything to do if you enjoyed the hide on your back. Yet, here they were, on the man's flowered patterned couch, ready to make a proposal.

Maybe it was his welcoming appearance that made Sinclair be a threat to those gullible enough. A bit like Reed Wahl, who had faked a pledge to Fontaine with his voice and got him arrested, only that the businessman knew what he was doing. Wahl had been jealous, but Sinclair had greed running up his veins.

But, Porter had to give him that, Sinclair was versatile. He was simulating the awe of hearing Tenenbaum's news rather well, even appearing a little slow in catching her implications.

"Now, really?" Sinclair made and swished his lit cigarette through the air. "You've always had a way to make things go your way, Doctor."

"Yes," she replied, without implying any emotion. "I have talked to Jack, Sinclair," she added, dropping the 'Herr's with him, "and he has told me about what you are doing for him."

"Doin'... what, exactly?" the man asked, folding his arms, keeping the intrigued facade up.

"You are helping him with the expenses for his Little Ones," she replied. "He has told me that you are paying most of their education fees. And Eleanor's, too."

"Ah, that's a bit of a stretch. I hope you ain't takin' me up for charity."

"You are making amends with your mistakes, Sinclair."

Sinclair's eyebrows darted up in disbelief. "Amends? Me? I make no amends for anythin', darlin', and you know that much. I've made my choices in good mind."

"Then why are you doing it? Why are Jack and his Little Ones so fond of you and why are Eleanor Lamb and Subject Delta living with you? You have changed, Sinclair."

It was the moment Sinclair decided to cut his pretence show. "First of all, Brigid," he began, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward, "Jack's currently workin' for me, an' it's only natural he ain't doin' it for free. An' about Delta and his daughter, I couldn't exactly kick them into the streets, 'cause a diving suit wobblin' around with an awkward girl stick out like a sore thumb."

"No! That is what mercy means. You are freeing your soul," the woman insisted, going with her speech in only one direction.

Sinclair's demeanour changed radically, voice turning cold and a bit harsh. "Brigid, sweetheart, don't you talk to me about mercy and makin' amends, 'cause I'm not the one who'd nearly gotten themselves into the great hereafter to rescue some narcoleptic scrawny kids."

Tenenbaum leaned forward as well and her smoking hand darted to her side, the withering cigarette nearly burning Porter's forearm. The man shifted slightly, intently watching the exchange.

"No, you have nearly gotten yourself killed while guiding Delta to his Little One. I know guilt when I see it, Sinclair," she contradicted, tone accusatory. "I am shadowed by my past mistakes, and so are you."

"Well, I'm sorry that your conscience is a mullin' bitch, sweetie, but get to your point."

"I want to help you," Tenenbaum insisted. "I can make Delta human again."

Sinclair rested his shoulders back. He sucked the last fumes out of the dying cigarette, then crushed it into the crystal astray on the table. "I don't think you an' I are on the same page, Brigid," he said, voice devoid of the usual lilt. "Delta is quite human, jus' a tad stuck inside a walkin' armour."

"I can get him out of the suit and undo the harm that has been done to him, if you will allow me. I mean to help you," she repeated.

He usually would have jumped at snatching the bargain, because scrapping Delta from his confines was the thing that he wanted the most, but something stirred in Augustus that made him sweep candour aside. "Another thing where I disagree with you. I'm not the one who's supposed to allow you doin' somethin' like that, even if I can't say I don't like the sound of it."

"So you agree with my offer of turning Subject Delta back, then?"

Sinclair let out a huff of air as he twirled the empty cigarette holder between his fingers. "You do business for as long as I have an' you learn that even the best of deals have their own downsides," he told. "It was a... soul searchin' discussion, darlin', but riddle me this. What are the real implications, Brigid? The risks? You ain't gonna tell me that this idea of yours perfectly safe. I wasn't born yesterday, and nor were you, Doctor."

Porter was astounded by how fast Sinclair jumped from the polite host to the businessman cutting up a deal. For a split moment, the man had shown excitement over the scientist's proposal, then jumped at her neck to later get straight into how it might go wrong. The two of them must have had some history together, he supposed.

But, however it was, they were right about they have been saying, down in Rapture, that Sinclair never risked his neck over a bad affair if he could prevent it. The man truly had a heart of stone, even if he smiled through the storm.

"No, it is not," Tenenbaum finally agreed. "But I have studied the bodies of several Alpha Series while I was still in Rapture. The separation is possible."

"Even if he had been functional? You said that Mister Porter here hasn't been activated."

"Yes, even so. Complications are not inevitable, but I think I can minimise them, with the right team. I have recruited certain valid people for the procedures on Herr Porter."

"Which I hope you understand that I'll be runnin' a throughout background checkin' on them, myself."

"Naturally."

Sinclair's eyes roamed over the surface of the ashtray, as if considering things. "He's gonna need a bigger crowd than your Mister Porter, and far more silent."

"Do you happen to know the extent of his lesions?"

"Fairly so," Sinclair admitted. "We don't want someone faint of heart, as to say, if we are to go with your plan."

Tenenbaum noticed the indecision in his words. "If?"

"If," Sinclair echoed. "We can't force such a decision without havin' a proper talk."

"I will speak to Eleanor, of course, once we are done here."

"No, honey, you got me all wrong," Sinclair insisted. "Look. I've no problem with your proposal. But there's the catch. Ain't me, nor Eleanor calling the shots in this. It's Delta, he's the one you oughtta talk to. He might not be able to do many things in his current state, but he's got a good head between the shoulders."

"And how are we going to find his opinion? He is not able to voice it!"

"Ah, but he can say what he has in mind. I've taught him the sign language and we converse like that, Brigid. He ain't a fried circuit, if that's what you're thinkin', he's very conscious of what it's happenin' around him. He's not one of your little ones, he can make decisions for himself," he said with finality, hearing Jack's voice closing in to them. "I reckon you should talk to him directly."

XXXXX

To say that Eleanor was ecstatic over Tenenbaum proposition would be an understatement, and same to be said about Delta's reticence about it.

He listened carefully to all that she explained. When she was done, he mimicked his questions to Sinclair, who voiced his mute considerations.

Both Tenenbaum and Porter were surprised to see Delta's hands forming words fluidly, logically and pertinently, even if he couldn't say them. It didn't look like Sinclair was flourishing anything that he was translating, as Eleanor was nodding in approval at what he was speaking on her father's behalf.

Unfortunately, the discussion ended with a mutual agreement to wait for Delta's decision, who was a bit sceptical. Eleanor didn't complain, supporting her father's choice to think things over. She didn't look pleased with how the talk had turned out, but she kept silent about her discontent.

However, it didn't mean that she didn't brought the subject up as often as possible, trying to convince Delta of how beautiful the sun will feel on his face. The Big Daddy merely responded that he needed time to prepare himself, and that was that.

XXXXX

The nights were getting colder. Augustus enjoyed looking at the stars, breathing the strong air of the ocean while his steaming tea was cooling in the wind. The sky was barely lit by the crescent moon and the little sparkles that were peppered over the wide spread of the dark sheet were twinkling at him. He sometimes found the desire to wink back at them, the playful little gems.

Rather frequently, Delta would join him and sit next to him, on their flowery porch. He would bring a lantern to illuminate his hands and tell Sinclair about the sky and the celestial material. He would mimic, slowly to be visible in the flickering light, about what he had read in various articles and treaties of astronomy.

In that diving suit was hidden such a brilliant creature, Sinclair often thought. His bond with Eleanor was furthering away from the mental plains, his mind finally fully operating, without his judgement impaired by certain external factors. He had become independent, and so had his daughter. Though, they still couldn't stay away from each other for too long periods of time, or they would both get dizzy and would hallucinate dreadful things.

That was a half life, neither being able to really go anywhere. Delta was resisting the lack of EVE most heroically, showing no sign of the usual withdrawal, and Sinclair had reasons to believe he wasn't really spliced, but merely stuck in a confining situation. Or perhaps it was Eleanor's presence that did him all that good.

He wasn't sure what the reason was, but he had voiced that much. Alas, Delta had yet to give an answer about Tenenbaum's proposal, as if he hadn't heard her. Eleanor was refusing to comment, moping around and seeing to her own devices, and Sinclair was left to try to accommodate the two people that he was sharing his house with.

No personal memory provided any support in their peculiar case, because the half Panamanian never had to think of someone else's best interest or the comfort of a person in need. Not to mention someone that he cared about, because he had never really gave anyone the time of his day without ulterior motives. That was about as foreign as a third leg.

With little options, Sinclair entered the house and left the empty mug in the kitchen sink. He took a few steps away from it, then returned to wash it. He could at least do that, as he was constantly feeling like he was freeloading in his own home.

He ascended the stairs to the next floor and saw light coming from the edge of Delta's creaked opened door. Augustus pushed it slightly with the tip of his foot and the door slid on the floor, halting middle way.

His head peeked from behind the wood. "Hey, chief, mind if I come in?"

Delta, who was facing the other end of the room, grunted his permission.

Sinclair slipped through the door and let it as he had found it, slightly ajar. He stepped to his friend, who was listlessly staring at the window that was too far from him to actually see something through it. He was seated on the edge of the bed, with an opened book over his lap. The page probably hadn't been turned in a long while.

"What's the bother, chief? Are you unwell?"

Delta's shoulders shook. Sighing, Augustus took a seat next to him, their thighs pressing into each other.

"Honey bee, why are you so sad? Is that it? You're sad, chief? You shouldn't be."

Sinclair grabbed the large glove that was idling over the opened novel and dragged it towards his leg. He tried to entwine their fingers, his ridiculously small in the oversized palm.

They sat in silence. Languidly, Sinclair rubbed his thumb over the edge of Delta's glove. He cocked his head on the other's shoulder, and listened to the soft sound of his echoing breaths.

"Can I see your face, Johnny?" the older man asked, his face graced with a gentle smile. Delta's hands lifted to unfasten the clasps of his helmet and soon, there was nothing to cover his face.

Sinclair's smile picked up. "You pretty devil," he said playfully and kissed his damaged cheek. Delta hadn't really gotten used to Sinclair's constant lack of inhibition, and he couldn't quite understand why he kept on insisting to see his distorted visage, but he humoured him, anyway. It always felt too good to be true to have someone being so close without cowering away from the monstrosity that he had become.

He wondered if he had had people coming willingly to seat next to him, when he had been a regular person.

Their hands met again, and Delta lightly squeezed Sinclair's smaller one. He pressed their entwined fingers to his chest, then lowered them to the junction between their connected thighs. "Ah, thank you, chief," the man bubbled. "Love you, too, you oversized bucket of springs," he said affectionately and returned the gesture by putting their hands over his sternum.

He sounded so flustered whenever he said it, like he was divulging the biggest secret of the world. It was only natural that someone who had formed no real connection with another human being to be perpetually thrilled with confessing a feeling. It didn't bring Delta anything but warmth.

'The warmin' of the soul is merely a shiny wrapping for the warmin' of the body, an' that's one of nastiest sorts of business', Sinclair had once told him when he was relying his distaste for certain patronages, but he had never had no qualms about indulging in their little bubble of safety. He was condemning and defending an object at the same time, making the Big Daddy awfully confused on how his friend's mind was operating.

He remembered nothing about his former life, but he had read enough since he had moved in with the other man. Those books had taught him a thing or two about the human nature, but he found himself at loss with Sinclair, jumping from one thing to another.

Delta, without any trace of subjectivism, was wondering how long it would all last, and how painful it would turn out for him when Sinclair found another entertainment.

Perhaps he was giving the man too little credit, because he had been nothing short of helpful and he was trying very hard to make his and his daughter's lives as comfortable as they could get, but still. He could think of whatever he wanted, it wasn't as if he could voice his thoughts.

There were times when the Big Daddy believed that Sinclair could see ideas forming in his mind, because the man was already looking at him with an understanding expression. "Hey, big guy, why so down on the morale? Do you have second thoughts about anythin'?"

Delta nodded with a little difficulty, his movement hindered by the way the skin of his lower neck was grafted onto the suit. Sinclair's smirk turned into a pathetic little thing, looking sorrowful.

In those kinds of moments, Delta knew he wasn't being led by the nose by a bored businessman's whims, that he was important to someone. It made his heart quiver.

"Ah, Johnny, I can't read your mind, I'm sorry, but I have an idea about what's goin' through that awfully thick skull of yours." He shook his head. "I ain't meanin' to offend you, tart, only to tell that whatever you're worryin' about, is nonsense."

The sharp growl he received was indication enough that he had hit his mark.

"You're scared about what Tenenbaum proposed, is that it? You know, I've been talkin' to her, an' she assured me that there shouldn't be any problems. She showed me some mad ideas, but they made sense once I hit the library for some explanation. She knows her stuff, our kleine sauerkraut. You shouldn't worry, chief."

Once again, Delta nodded. He motioned with his free hand that he knew that.

"You wanna try the extraction, then?"

Another nod.

"Why, but that's good news, chief!" Sinclair chanced a glance at his companion's face as he straightened to pepper another peck on his jaw, fully expecting to see that radiant spark in the blue eyes, which signified that Delta was happy. Guess what - it wasn't there. If anything, Delta looked like he wanted to put a second bullet in his head.

"Now, now, that's not the face that I was hopin' for, honey pie," Augustus admonished. Delta only crooned, not forming another word with his hand. "Come on, Johnny, what's the matter? What are you afraid of? You're no mop to be mopin' around, pardon the lame pun. Do you think it'll be so different to be outside the suit? Well, it's gonna be, but you've got us, after all. Me and your little girl, we'll help you with the transition."

Another mournful groan tipped Sinclair on the real nature of Delta's dilemma. "Oh, boy," he muttered. "You're imaginin' that Eleanor won't love anymore, after the condition is gone."

The slashed eyebrows on Delta's face lowered and his eyes lost even more of their shine.

"Christ, Johnny," Sinclair made amusedly, "you're overthinkin'."

The man in the suit turned to look at the shorter one, who was fighting not to burst into laughter. He scowled, visibly hurt, but Sinclair waved his hand dismissively at him. "Pff, chief, I'm sorry, but I can't help it. You're bein' awfully ridiculous, sugar. Honestly. Do you seriously believe that Eleanor, who brought you back from the righteous and hauled you outta the fishbowl, would just spit you in the face when you two won't be mentally connected? Come on, you ain't stupid, chief. What you're thinkin', however, is very much so."

Their hands abruptly separated and Delta shifted closer to the foot of the bed, adding distance between them.

"Johnny, don't be a kid, come on," Sinclair added. "Yeah, it might have started because of the pheromones, but that girl really loves you. You're her Daddy, do you think it's somethin' little? It is not, I assure you, an' I know what I'm sayin'."

He slid on the sheets, so that he was once again glued to Delta's side. "She doesn't care if you're in a divin' suit or not, the girl wanna see you happy. I want that, too."

Delta made another dismissive sound.

"Okay, don't believe me if that's what you want," Sinclair said as he gave the other a bit of space between them, "but look at it like this. You two can't really be separated, an' the girl is growin'. She'll want to have a life of her own, one day, and she won't be able to, 'cause she can't be away from you for longer than a day or two, or you might kick the bucket. Maybe the both of you."

Delta's eyes darted to the businessman's mouth, not believing he was capable of saying something like that.

"You're her Daddy, but you don't own her, Johnny. Maybe she'll want a family, to have a normal life, not to be stuck with a rusty suit that can't let go of her. She won't leave you, she loves you very much, but you ain't givin' her a chance, right now, to pave her own path. I believed you weren't like that, sport, but you're as selfish as they come, robbin' your girl's freedom 'cause you don't wanna be alone."

Oh, that was him hitting a new personal low, Sinclair thought to himself. That was the way he was convincing people, pressing where the bruise was, but he shouldn't have run his mouth like that on Delta. He was sure that he was going to receive the slap of his life, seeing the big hand already lifting, and he closed his eyes to receive the blow. Darn it, didn't he deserve it, after being so uncouth.

There was no pain delivered. He was dragged into a breathtaking – quite literally – hug. The hand that was supposed to smack him carded though his hair, pressing his face into the chest plate of the suit, and the other was practically choking him from the force of the embrace.

Delta's entire body shuddered, as if he was crying, and his eyes were so grim that they looked like someone died.

Finding it very hard to breathe, Sinclair tried to rationalise his air intake, not wanting to disturb the battle that was being fought in Delta's head. Perhaps the wheezing noise of his breath pulled his friend back to reality, and he was mercifully allowed a slacker clasp.

He promptly returned it, so that the Big Daddy wouldn't go away, like he was indicating. "I'm sorry, Johnny, for sayin' that. Honestly," Augustus apologised, words sounding foreign on his tongue. "You're the most selfless soul I know and I'm a big time asshole, but please, listen to me. Eleanor doesn't care a damn if you're in or out, nor do I, as long as you're happy. But we want you to live to the fullest. I want you to live to the fullest." He stopped abruptly and forced their gazes to meet. "If there's someone selfish in this room, it's me."

Delta shook his head, desperately trying to show that it wasn't true, but Sinclair silenced him. "No, Johnny, it's true. I've had you followed an' got you incarcerated, ultimately turnin' you into what you are, but all I can think of is how I want to take you out, go absolutely anywhere you want, an' show you there's more to life than a cage. An' the worst thing of all, kid, is that I don't want it for you or your girl, but for myself."

He pushed away from the big body of his companion, all the way looking down. He had never had such a conversation, that hit so close to where it ached. It was the other way around, always.

He was becoming a downright sap, lately.

"I want you to taste what you're cookin' for us an' see how good you are at it. I want you to feel the sun and the wind and the rain on your face, to be warm an' to be cold. I want you to be able to smile, to laugh and frown, to cry and gasp." Sinclair was sounding more and more articulated, the playful tilt in his voice nearly gone. He looked up to stare into the blue eyes that were watching him, opened widely and glassy. "I want to see and feel all of you, Johnny, even if I know that you might die if somethin' goes wrong."

Sinclair rubbed his eyes and slicked his hair back, lowering his forehead in his palms. "It's funny, you know. I've reached the age when I should be thinkin' about the soul, like Tenenbaum keeps on pesterin' me, but I find myself stressin' like an infant over a toy." He crooked his neck to look at Delta. "You really don't deserve such a treatment, Johnny, because you are a good man. I'm not, but I still can't let you see to your own choices. I... I'm sorry, kid. Really sorry."

Delta leaned forward, despite being a difficult motion for him, and his fingers enveloped the two wrists of his partner. He gingerly tugged them towards his shoulders, forcing the older man's arms around his neck. His gloved hands reached for the round cheeks in front of him, and cupped them between his coarse, gloved palms.

Sinclair's eyebrows were lowered pathetically. He was feeling just the same, like a small shrivelled scoundrel that was stealing the only nut from a Mamma squirrel who wanted to feed her babies. For the first time in his life, he didn't want to be where he was. He wanted those eyes to stop looking down at him so kindly, despite what he had just said.

"My Ma' would be grandly mad at me," he spoke out of the blue. He tightened his grip on the large shoulders of his friend, circling as much as he could of them. "She was such a kind an' generous woman, may her bones rest in peace. A lot like you. You remind me so much of her, you know," the older man whispered, touching the disfigured cheek that trembled under his fingertips.

Delta wanted to smile, but he couldn't. He couldn't shed a tear for his friend. He could do nothing that a normal person could, but he was trying.

He willed Sinclair to look into his eyes, the little bit of him that were able to show some emotion. The hazel eyes took into his image, sparkling with so many things that he couldn't say, not because he didn't want to, but because he didn't know how. The heart wasn't one that could be sold, and Augustus knew too little of the things that didn't render a profit or didn't come with a price tag.

He knew little of the only completely true things in a human's life, because money never had been a real friend to anyone. They could betray a person without any trace of emotion.

But one like Johnny Topside or whatever his name had been, was genuine in every gesture.

The smile that pervaded Sinclair's features was sincere, full of gratefulness. His cheeks were clasped tighter and he leaned into the cupping palms. "You are too forgivin', sweetheart," he muttered. "But I'm thankful for it," he added and leaned forward to plant a gentle peck over the stapled lips, metal searing into his skin.

Delta's hands grabbed his locks and brought him closer, and Sinclair could only comply with placing heated kisses everywhere, around his torn mouth, his cracked cheeks and scarred forehead.

And they kept on doing just that, one fisting greying brown hair and the other worshiping ragged skin, unaware that Eleanor was staring at them from behind the slightly ajar door, utterly shocked.

XXXXX

As he lit a cigarette, looking at the city breathing under the window of his office, Sinclair wondered why, during the past couple of days, Eleanor had been staring at him as if he has been drowning kittens for fun.

He spent almost the entirety of the stick wondering what he had done to make the girl behave like that. She had become awfully protective of her father, too – well, far more than usual.

Sinclair had been certain – no longer, at the moment – that he and Eleanor had hit it off. Apparently, something must have tripped her and she regained her cautious behaviour around him. She went as far as to isolate him from her and her father, barely seeing anything of them, and it was starting to grate on his nerves.

The knock on his door disrupted his thoughts, however. "Enter," he answered, and crushed the butt of the cigarette into the ashtray.

"Your daughter came to see you, Mister Sinclair, should I send her in?" his secretary asked. She was blonde and nice to look at, always coquette with her red lips and wide curls, and possessed a warm personality. It was improbable to have a client that didn't like her, not with her agreeable character. Even Jack Ryan had taken a penchant to chatting with her whenever he had to talk to Sinclair when he was at work, and she blushed fiercely every time she caught the young man smiling at her. His shy gestures were returned with a bashful giggle and hidden glances, the woman constantly eager to see the kind stranger or hear his deep, slightly trembling voice.

On a far more professional level, Sinclair liked her well enough, too, because she didn't tend to impose and she was discreet, not making her sole purpose to nose through her boss' affairs.

She referred to Eleanor as 'his daughter', because she had guessed that the girl that sometimes barged into his office, demanding this or that and asking if she needed to buy something for home, was his child. He wasn't about to contradict her assumption, as it was far easier to lie about their real relationship than to explain how he had ended up with her.

The woman waited patiently for her employer to say something, but she was seeing clearly that he was thinking of something.

Finally, Sinclair's smile reappeared as if it was nothing. "Yes, Odette, kindly tell her to come in."

"Very well, Sir."

"Thank you, dear," he replied. Just as he was fishing for a new cigarette, Eleanor entered the room.

"Honey! How are y-"

"I need to talk to you," Eleanor deadpanned, effectively shutting his mouth.

He looked around the room and motioned for a spare chair. "Of course, take a s-"

"Not here," she stated, sounding robotic.

"Eleanor, sweetheart, you do realise that it's the middle of the day and I have meetings later," he said, but it appeared to be the wrong move. The girl was glaring at him. "But I can postpone them, naturally." He walked to the door and called for his secretary to reschedule his entire afternoon.

Grabbing his coat, Sinclair motioned for Eleanor to follow him out.

They walked down the street in the most uncomfortable silence, and Sinclair was once again wondering what he had done. The girl wasn't talking, merely focusing on the pavement, and he didn't know what to do.

Whoever said that teenagers were a different breed hadn't been wrong.

"Have you eaten for lunch?" he asked lightly. "I can take you somewhere, if you'd like."

Eleanor nodded. "I know a place."

"Alright, then. Show the way."

He let himself to be lead by the girl to a rather dingy looking dinner, but Eleanor assured him that it was excellent and that she went there with her colleagues quite often. Being on thin ice with her, Sinclair refrained from commenting.

She ordered some random sounding sandwiches for the both of them and took the packed food on the go. Sinclair, who positively hated eating while walking – and Eleanor was very aware of that – was starting to have enough of her antics.

"Sweetie, what's the matter? I though you wanted to talk, not take a stroll."

"Let's find a bench in the park and we shall talk."

With one sentence, Sinclair knew he must have done something terribly wrong to the girl. She was making him eat in a park, after she had taken him to a seedy looking place and not even letting him know what she had made him buy.

In other words, whatever that could unnerve him in the span of ten minutes.

He went along with her, however, because he was curious. He had never minded spending time with her, even talking about the more sensible aspects of life, but he had never thought that she could be so rude. She was a very well behaved young lady – under normal circumstances, at the very least.

They found a remote bench shadowed by a willow. Eleanor chose her spot in order to make Sinclair seat in the only part where the weeping branches would rest over his head, then bit her sandwich and munched on it happily.

So many ways to show that you hate a person, Sinclair thought. How lovely.

He took a seat by her, finding a position in which no leaves touched him. He was encouraged to try his sandwich. The bite he took was wary, but he soon perked up.

"It does not have to have to be fancy to be good, Sinclair. Don't look so surprised."

"I've never doubted your tastes, honey. But, as much as I appreciate this little outing, I believe you've said you wanted to tell me somethin'?"

"Yes," she replied simply, and shifted on her spot. She seemed less confident than before, and Sinclair was starting to wonder what that was about.

Something very paternal stirred inside him, making him fear for the worst.

Whatever had happened, he decided that he would find some means to support her, both financially and emotionally. After all, she was his girl, too, even if she denied it first thing in the morning.

"So," he begun encouragingly, "you were sayin', sweetheart?"

She looked at him gravely, impassively, something that reminded him of Sofia Lamb and her inexpressive mare figure. "What are you doing with my father?"

Sinclair choked with saliva and he started coughing. He was beginning to prefer the case in which Eleanor told him she had gotten knocked up or something, rather than this.

Well, that particular scenario didn't float his boat, either, if he thought it through.

"Sinclair," Eleanor averted, sounding too alike her mother, "tell me the truth."

"What prompted the question?" he asked in turn, smiling dumbly and mentally formulating an answer that wouldn't make him look like a molester in the eyes of the girl.

"I have seen you kissing my father."

Ah, the molester it is, then.

Sinclair inhaled deeply and sighed. "I reckon you want some explanation."

"I am not joking, Sinclair," Eleanor warned. Her voice tuned her late parent's, but her face was rosy and concerned, not dead as a fish. "I have seen you two nights ago, in his room. I wanted to ask you if you have seen my red notebook and knocked at your door, but you were not there. I went to father's room and found you doing... that, to him."

There was a God even for sinners, Augustus had thought, if that was all the girl had seen. She would have been far more scandalised if something else had occurred in front of her, but that night, he had only babbled with Delta, and little else.

"I see," Sinclair said mildly.

"Do not evade this, please," Eleanor pleaded. "I need you to be honest with me, Sinclair."

"I know, honey, I know. I'll admit, I care very much for you and your Daddy."

Eleanor's eyes narrowed, spurring Augustus on. "Come on, not everythin' I say is bullshit! I am fairly certain I've never lied to you or your Daddy. I want us to be convivial, as to say."

"And what is convivial in what you are doing? Is father even consenting to this?"

Sinclair's grimace turned stern. "Now, Eleanor, I severely hope that you're not implyin' that I'm... what, raping your father? Or whatever wild notion you have."

The girl looked horrified at him. Sinclair shook his head, even less excited by where the conversation was going than before. "Don't give me that face, Eleanor, 'cause that's precisely what you were doin', kid, an' I'm not appreciatin' it in the slightest. I haven't reached this age to have a teenager pointin' fingers at me. I hope that much is clear to you."

"I don't understand, how can father-"

"Eleanor," Sinclair interjected, "don't go there, sweetie, 'cause it's not a discussion I'll have with a girl that's third my age, alrigh'? Your father," he said, for the first time using that word in her presence, "is an adult in the plenitude of his sanity, just like myself. There are certain things that jus' don't concern you, among those that do and you already know. Is that clear?"

Eleanor adjusted her position, visibly out of sorts. She had read about many things and experienced close to none. It was so strange to see Sinclair, who didn't strike her like anything but a relatively harmless man, as anything but the one that put a roof over her head and took care that she lacked nothing. She had thought of him, and her father as well, as two unmoving statues, not living creatures that behaved like any other one.

Augustus watched the young face contort, clearly showing the thoughts that were going through her head. He had taken comfort in not having to talk about birds and bees with his parents because, when he had been old enough, they had been already dead, but he really didn't want to talk about his pursuits with a teenager that was too young to buy alcohol.

Actually, he might have no problem with talking about something like that with her, if he considered it a bit more, but he was definitely not going to do it in the park.

He lit himself another cigarette, his head feeling like it might burst. Eleanor was still staring at him, and he sighed. "I'd ask you if you wanted one, but your Daddy will have my head on our livin' room's wall if he knows. Alas, if you want one, we can always use the fact that what he doesn't know, can't hurt him."

'Great approach, genius,' he thought immediately. Offer her to smoke, perfect idea.

That was precisely the reason why he was literally shit with children.

"Anyway, honey, no need to imagine such crazy things, alrigh'? What you saw was me talkin' with your Daddy about what Tenenbaum had said. He wants to do it. Only that, you see... he's afraid."

"Why would he be?"

The girl looked so hopeful, Sinclair hated to crush her spirit. "He's afraid that, once the mental connection's fully lost, you'll stop carin' about him and... well, you'll forget him."

"How- how can he think that? He is the one who showed me that love is a chemical, but we give it meaning! Did he not mean it?"

"'Course he did, sweet pie, an' I've told him somethin' along the lines... but, you know. Humour him, it's only natural that he's afraid."

She looked down. "It is like the school talk we have had."

"Atta, girl. Now you're starting to sound smart again."

"Hm," Eleanor hummed and bit her lower lip. "He wants to do it," she said absently, then smiled at Sinclair. "He really wants to do it."

"Mhm. But we'll have to be by his side, sweetheart, 'cause it won't be easy for'im."

"Will you stand by us, then? Sinclair?"

The man snorted a chuckled. "Of course, honey. You do the encouragin', I do the rest. We'll make it work, don't fret."

He continued to smoke, not saying another word while Eleanor was deciding over whatever was fleeting through her brain. After a while, her calm voice was heard again. "How does father look like, underneath the helmet? I have not seen his face, he was standing with his back at me."

"Well, he looks a bit like you," Sinclair replied, and he wanted to pat his own back when the girl lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Really?"

"Mhm," he hummed. "He's a handsome fella, I've gotta tell you. He's got dark hair, clear blue eyes. Very much like yours, actually."

"Do you think he is my real father? I have been wondering that."

"I dunno, honey, it's hard to say without any records, if they've ever existed. We could find a way to check, if you want. We could talk to Tenenbaum, she'd run some tests."

"We... would better not," Eleanor retorted hesitatingly. "He is my father, biological or not. And, Sinclair, I... do not fully mind that you are... close to him, now that I know."

"Pff, thanks a bunch, honey pie. I've passed the test, hm? Oh, Lord, don't tell me you've finally started likin' me."

"No," she replied sharply. "But father is happy."

Sinclair chuckled, amused by her stubbornness. "Let us jus' keep him that way, what do you say?"

Eleanor nodded and returned to her sandwich, while Augustus felt as if he had won the prize for the 'Conflict Solver of the Year'.

XXXXX

Wise men said that the road from planning to doing is a tedious path, but in their case, it had been a way straight through the hurricane.

Checking every single one in the small team that would perform the interventions, followed by threatening them with what would happen if word got out about what they have been asked to do, and then bribing them not to get the chicken feet were tasks that Sinclair did in a whirl. He was well versed in the domain, hard negotiation dabbed in some choice persuasion being the drug that made his day brighter, but he had never been prepared by anything in his life for the emotional ride that ensued soon after.

Eleanor, with her throat in knots through everything, made him even more nervous than her. If that was possible. Sinclair had no idea how he could reassure her, though he was finding some capabilities within himself that he had never thought he possessed.

He was acting more the concerned party than he had originally planned, but he wasn't going to smack the poor girl over the head and tell her to grow up. She frequently asked to sleep next to him, because she couldn't fall asleep, and he would stay awake for many hours, watching the teenager struggling in her slumber, stroking her hair and lifting the blanket back under her chin when she was kicking and thrashing around.

It was no lie to say that she had scared the hell out of him when she had first asked him if she could get into bed with him – the exact words. The first thing that had come to him, in his perfectly groggy state, being just roused from sleep, had been to wonder what he had done to have such a young lady offering something like that. An instant later, his mind had sobered up and he'd considered that maybe he was the one in the need of a good smite over the head, not Eleanor.

Way to go, he had thought - yet another resounding reason why he wasn't suited to take care of children.

Of course, despite all the initial awkwardness of the situation, he had made space for her on the sheets and tucked her in. He held her close, rubbing her back or telling her soothing words while she sometimes sniffed into the pillow.

Sinclair wasn't sure he had ever embraced anyone as much as he did with her, probably not even his mother, but it was the only thing he thought that would help. She was touch-starved, not having gotten enough affection when she had been young, and even if Delta had tried, he couldn't really replace the connection that formed through skin. However, even if he was losing a lot of sleep due to her nightly routine, not once had Augustus pushed her away. She clung to him for hours, shaking silently or apologising into his shoulder for imposing so much on him.

He never uttered even a shadow of complain to her. She was a very tough girl, even if she couldn't control herself when all of her body was aching. It was remarkable how resilient she was, struggling to resist the sufferance that she was experiencing.

Unconsciously, Delta was making her feel his throbbing pain. Sinclair hadn't mentioned that side effect to him, when Tenenbaum had told him, and had chosen to speak solely to Eleanor about it. The moment she had been informed, the girl had insisted that her father needn't know of their condition. She had decided to brave through everything, and Sinclair did his best to support her.

That was their way of living for a good period of time. Augustus shared his day between working and staying with Eleanor, and she tried to focus to her best aptitudes at school, before going to pick Sinclair up from his office downtown. More often than not, they came back home together.

He took her out frequently, to the films or shows of all sorts. Whenever he had some more work to do, having to look into some new business he had invested in or checking the management of the ones that he already owned, the teenager relocated her university assignments to his office couch. A few times, she had fallen asleep on top of her books, and Sinclair covered her with a knitted blanket he had reserved in case he had to spend the night at work. He had never used it, because ever since he had come back to the surface from Rapture, he had a reason to return home every evening.

Sinclair had never thought that he would ever have his routine revolving around someone else, not to the point where he stopped voluntarily midway an important report to check if Eleanor had eaten that day or to make sure that she was alright.

But this was nothing, actually, in comparison to something else that came on his dish, which truly shook him. There was little to describe the emotions that coursed through him when, one night, Eleanor asked him if she could call him 'Dad', when it was only them and no one could hear. She told him that she thought of him of something like a Godfather, in lack of a better term, or maybe a step father that she liked.

Augustus smiled at her and kissed her forehead. Of course he didn't mind being called that, he told her, and Eleanor happily snuggled at his side. For the first time in who knew how long, she had slept through the night without cudgelling and waking up in fright.

Sinclair, however, hadn't closed an eye until dawn, and thought of Delta and their daughter. Well, only half his own, though it didn't matter, because it was more than he had ever had.

XXXXX

It took a good while to detach the pained body from the suit, and even longer to reconstruct what had been damaged, but Delta was showing great stubbornness in making it through.

Eleanor wasn't allowed to see him, from his direct request. Delta didn't want his daughter to see him being cut open and rearranged. She visited his reserve and sat in the next room, listening to Tenenbaum who told her about her father's progress, but not once had she really seen him. The only one who came in and out was Sinclair, who stayed close to Delta whenever he was permitted.

There were certain moments when she had to be monitored, as well, because the father and daughter had a deeper connection that, if ruptured at the wrong time, could be fatal for the both of them. Eleanor fought and prevailed, giving strength to Delta, who was walking on the path to look more like a human by the day.

Sinclair would never forget the day when he was given the empty diving suit and was announced by Tenenbaum that they had succeeded. He - who wasn't exactly an impressionable man - nearly fainted, but had the sense to catch Eleanor first before sitting down.

At home, during a sunny Saturday afternoon, Eleanor and Augustus washed and polished the diving suit one more time before putting it in storage, in a place of honour.

They've done their former weekly task weeping in joy, the both of them, not believing that it had really happened. The suit with a Delta symbol on its gloves was just an empty shell and the man underneath was finally out, to feel everything around him. It had been a vessel that had never failed any of them, no matter the hurt and hardship it had endured.

Finally, it was allowed to rest and become a thing of the past.

After a while and many other surgeries, Tenenbaum announced Sinclair that Johnny, as they have taken to calling him, would have all the bandages stripped off him. The businessman left Eleanor with Jack Ryan, who happened to come see how they were doing. Sinclair lied that he was only going to the office because he had forgotten something, when in fact, he went to the reserve where the former Big Daddy was.

It was selfish of him not to bring Eleanor along, but it was also a method of precaution. He knew that the doctors had done their damndest. He knew that, because he had put the fear of God in them if they didn't.

However, some things had to be done in a certain order, and Eleanor didn't need to know or see them. He would be, after all, the one to aid the patient regain all his senses and tend to him for as long as Johnny wasn't able to do it himself. He agreed to it voluntarily, because Sinclair really wanted to see the man up and about.

For both their sakes, and Eleanor's.

When the bandages eventually came off, Augustus Sinclair, a person of great composure – or so he liked to think - nearly torn a few stitches as he hooked his arms around the recovering man on the hospital bed.

Thankfully, they were alone when this bit of embrace happened, because he would have terrified the nurses with how deeply he kissed the poor dizzy bloke.

Even bigger was the elation when the father and the daughter looked at each other without any glass separating their view. With shaky hands that were still covered in surgical wire, Johnny mimicked to Eleanor that he loved her and that he was happy to see her, in his newly restored body. And, when she gently brought him to her heart and kissed his hair, he looked brightly at Sinclair, who was watching them with kind eyes.

At last, Johnny could finally smile at the two people he loved the most.

Part Two – Sunken Adonis

Life wasn't too shabby for the three people that inhabited the house with the blue rooftops by the ocean. But it was nothing short of strange.

Being so used to having a huge diving suit lumbering around and doing all kinds of chores, Sinclair and Eleanor still found surprise to see Johnny slowly relearning how to walk, all by himself.

Even after he had regained all motor functions, he was still using a cane for support. His muscles were filling in and he was looking healthier by the day, skin less translucent and veins no longer poking out from underneath.

His hands had become steady quite early in his recovery and he had remembered how to write very fast. He started doodling on the corners of books and newspapers, so Sinclair provided him with paper and many types of pencils, brushes and pigments.

Johnny showed real talent in the visual arts and he started drawing and painting. They started decorating around the house with his works, enhancing the already lively walls, and he was happier than he had ever been.

He still recalled nothing about his life before becoming Delta. The instincts had remained, but no useful memories came to the surface, as if he had never lived. Augustus suggested that he could look into people that had gone missing that matched his description, but the former Big Daddy declined the offer. He didn't want to learn who he had been, because he didn't know what sort of man he would discover.

He had an identity already, constructed around the two people he lived with, his daughter and Sinclair. He still didn't know his real name, but it mattered little, as long as he had them.

Actually, he quite liked being called Johnny. He felt like he hadn't just landed on the face of Earth via a comet, that he was someone.

Sinclair had been calling him that for a long time, anyway, and Johnny really liked how that sounded from the man's lips.

Lips he hadn't touched ever since he had been permitted to go home after all of his swaddles had been removed, as a matter of fact.

And here was the very root of all confusion that Johnny felt every single day spent in the cosy house by the shore.

The half Panamanian businessman had been a real friend to him, all throughout his recovery. Sinclair had taken some sort of half vacation for himself, trying to minimise his work and dedicate as much time as he could to the initially lethargic patient.

He supported Johnny as he learnt to walk again, helped him bathe and care for himself. He did everything without any indications that he might be bothered. At most, he jested to make Johnny comfortable.

When all of the former Big Daddy's finer movements began to function properly, thing that happened once he started scribbling without having his fingers trembling, they returned to having their usual long chats. He would mimic his words and Sinclair would look at his hands, deciphering his words, and he would smile at him.

Whenever Johnny returned the gesture, Sinclair beamed as if bouquets of money were being thrown at him.

The two men and Eleanor spent time together just like they had done before, reading, conversing or listening to a show on the radio. Augustus sometimes told Johnny that he had to get stronger soon, because he wanted to take him to the theatre or to the opera, to witness the real deal, not the broadcast.

With every word of encouragement, no matter how small, Johnny found more and more resources to keep on going.

It had hurt at first, being out of the suit, but the pain faded to a null, eventually. Johnny finally had enough stability to walk on his own feet, unattended, and not too long after, he found that he could lift even the heavier things without sparing much effort.

He returned to his usual self-imposed chores, though he did them more carefully. He didn't want to injure himself and ruin the good doctors' fine work.

He was astounded that he was looking very much like a human – one that had a tad too many scars and odd lines and recovering mottled skin, but a human nonetheless. He was feeling like he supposed one felt, even if he still couldn't talk. His larynx had been severely damaged, but whatever cartilages that had been salvaged might grant him the possibility to whisper, in time.

His tongue had a strange shape, as if it had been bitten off on the edges that it was missing, but it was working, at least. He could taste with it and, true to Sinclair's word, his cooking was too good to be true.

Johnny was indeed very tall and he must have been well built, once. He was still too thin and some of his muscles were a bit flabby, but through the different labours that he was doing around the house and the garden, he was starting to fill in.

The most complicated surgery had been done to his face, where the deep cuts that had been once kept together by staples were replaced with neat sutures, slowly fading into scars. It had been a messy job, but it had worked. He had no idea how the doctors had saved his muscles, what they had done to give him facial mobility, but he was so grateful for it.

Sinclair kept on repeating him that he was handsome, a real looker and everything that went along those lines. He was saying that he will be swooning all the ladies that he will meet once he will find the courage to leave the house, and so on.

Mighty nice of Sinclair to say that, but not even once had he tried to kiss Johnny, to touch him. To do anything that they used to do, while he was still grafted to the suit.

That pained Johnny far more than any of the surgeries he had undergone.

He knew that he wasn't good looking. He probably had been a handsome man before being ripped of his humanity, but he was no longer. He was probably looking like a freak. No one had told him that, but he had seen pictures of other people, undamaged and with perfect skin. He didn't look like them, and he knew it.

He refused to delve too deep into those thoughts, continuously telling himself that he looked just a bit different, that he didn't have signs to put a war veteran to shame, that his mouth hadn't been assembled from scratches and that his jaw didn't have metal bars implanted to regain its shape and functionality. He told that to himself every night, before retiring to bed, when he watched himself in the ornate mirror that Eleanor had gifted him when he had returned home, to see his progress. He had hanged it on the wall next to the closet and spent some long hours in front of it, training his facial muscles into behaving.

He tried hard, but Sinclair still didn't give him the time of the day.

Eleanor was just as loving to him as before, and she liked complimenting him on his achievements, however small. She proved all of his worries wrong, still calling him father and kissing his cheek before she went to sleep. He was glad to see that their relationship hadn't been affected, and he had been so happy when she had first left the city with Sinclair, when he had to go to a meeting in another state. They had had no incidents, none of them feeling the physical separation, indicating that Tenenbaum's efforts in creating a formula to cure them of the conditioning had worked.

Much to their delight, he hadn't been too spliced up by the terrible substance that had been forced into him while in Rapture, and now that his system was devoid of the plasmids, he felt as good as new.

And once again, Sinclair wasn't making any moves towards him.

If anything, he was being distant. They had the same routine through the day, but the man never came to at least seat closer to him. He was kept at an arm's length, if not more than that.

Johnny didn't dare approaching him, so he merely chanced glances at him over the pages of his romance books. Just as usual, Augustus was reading about some unnecessarily graphic murder mystery.

XXXXX

Jack Ryan visited them often, along with his five foster daughters. They sometimes stayed for dinner, which Johnny was always excited to prepare, just like practically all the meals in their house. He was teaching Eleanor how to cook, too, and was threatening Sinclair with a spatula not to touch the batter or anything in general, because the man was continuing to be a disaster in most of the homely chores. He was good at watering the garden, at least.

Brigid Tenenbaum came over, as well, sometimes bringing the girls that they couldn't return to their families. The girls strangely referred to Johnny as Mister Bubbles, even if he wasn't a Big Daddy anymore. Some things never changed, and he enjoyed playing with the little girls, who always jumped up and down when they were brought around.

Sinclair wasn't that ecstatic over the young balls of energy, but not because of their mere presence, which he bravely tolerated. He liked them well enough, in fact, though there was a little technicality that didn't make him swing their way. The girls started calling him Mamma August for some unknown reason, and that was driving him up the wall, trying to explain to them that he wasn't their mother, that he wasn't a woman, either, and that August wasn't his name.

Neither of them listened, evidently. Even Jack's daughters jokingly followed the example, and Eleanor teased him with it whenever he wasn't doing something that she wanted.

After a while, he realised that the war had been lost from the first battle and that he was going to be forever called Mamma August. That bogus nickname stuck like scum onto the sole of a shoe.

XXXXX

Those days, Eleanor and Jack's daughters were on a short trip to a mountain area, escorted by Mister Porter. The man was slowly adapting to the loss of his wife, accepting that she was never to return in his life, but being with the multitude of girls always lifted his spirits. They trusted him, being a levelled fellow, and he liked to take the young ones in various excursions when Sinclair or Jack didn't have the time.

During one evening at the beginning of that period, Brigid Tenenbaum visited them and accepted to stay over the night, as Jack was minding her foster Little Sisters.

Like every other time she had been their guest, they dined and chatted about this and that. Johnny liked talking to the woman, who had learnt how to communicate with him through the sign language. They all had learnt the language, for him, and he readily conversed with all of their mismatched friends.

Habitually, Sinclair and Tenenbaum would go on the porch and smoke, talking about regrets and whatever things could get them the most miserable, while Johnny made sure that everything was in order in the kitchen. The only thing that the older man was allowed to do without supervision was washing the dishes and brewing the coffee, but Johnny always ushered him to stay with their guests and leave the technicalities to him or to Eleanor.

That night, Johnny went out to ask if they wanted some tea or cocoa, but found neither smoker outside, on the veranda. Finding it strange, he silently looked for them inside the house.

He found them, alright, and he wished he hadn't.

They were in one of the guest room downstairs. It was a rather secluded room, therefore the door was opened, visibly forgotten like that.

Tenenbaum was sniffing, her cheeks red and eyes wet, and Sinclair was hugging her closely, whispering something into the ear. She was clinging to him, vibrating with every exhale and her hand was on the nape of his neck, clenching whenever she sobbed. The man rubbed large circles over her back, cooing at her.

Looking at them, Johnny felt as if he was intruding into something that could lead to things he didn't really want to think about.

Resentful beyond words for such affection that apparently, he had encouraged - albeit unknowingly - Johnny stormed into his room, upstairs, and shut the door behind him.

He hadn't cried in his new body before, but now, there he was, clutching his pillow and damning his luck for everything.

If that was going to be his life from then on, he would have preferred to die in the coffin of his suit than live like that, knowing that he was no longer anything but a curiosity of the past.

XXXXX

The first thing Sinclair did every morning was to prepare the coffee.

He was in the kitchen, in his usual combination of house robe, fluffy slippers and socks, stirring the powder he had previously grounded in the pot. He liked to brew it, his origins showing in the passion that he put into the beverage, made only from the best beans.

He was surprised not to have seen Johnny waiting for him when he went upstairs the previous night, after he had talked to Tenenbaum. She had taken Sinclair to show him something in the bedroom they had arranged for her, probably some article or object that sparkled her scientific interest, but the poor woman had burst into tears not long after she began talking to him. He couldn't even hear what she was saying, over the mourning in her voice. She had thrown her arms around him, violently shuddering from emotion. It was something that he would have never guessed it could happen with her.

Tenenbaum had many unresolved issues and even more regrets. She could barely stand someone else's touch, but with every word that she had said to Augustus, she had needed more support.

Lately deemed to be the designated pillow to choke in the house, Sinclair hadn't had much of a choice in comforting her as he had been assaulted by her arms. She had been too hysterical to simply be shoved into bed and tucked in, so he had tried to ease her down.

It was a bit of a therapy for the both of them, talking to each other about the darkest things. He didn't want Johnny in on that, not desiring to bother him with their old crooks musing, though he would have liked to at least tell him goodnight. He hadn't gotten the chance to do it, and when he'd gone upstairs, he had found his door closed. He supposed that his housemate must have gone to bed early.

Brigid shuffled to the kitchen, startling him. "Good morning," she said idly, and sat on a chair.

"Mornin', dear, hope you've slept heavenly," he greeted, and her eyes narrowed. "Ah, a presence as usual, Brigid," he japed sarcastically and she gave him a scowling expression.

Johnny entered and waved, but he didn't wear his usual brilliant smile from all the other mornings, when he greeted his daughter and Augustus. He sketched some resemblance of a tugged up line and started preparing the breakfast.

"Ah, darlin', but I wanted to do that! I can assure you - I think I can handle a pan," Sinclair told, not too confidently.

Contrary to any expectances, Johnny dismissed him categorically.

Usually, he would draw the banter longer, even if there was someone else in the room – because the older man just kept on with his gibberish and he quite liked hearing his voice going on and on – but he had effectively cut him off by turning around and igniting the stove, much to the other two's surprise.

Not too long after, Tenenbaum returned to her home and the two men were left to mind their own business of a cat chasing a mouse.

XXXXX

Johnny acted slightly different, Sinclair decided after obsessively watching him through the day. He looked like a kicked puppy, if he were to give his condition a name, and it brought him great annoyance.

They retreated to their separated bedrooms far earlier than usual. Well, actually Johnny just disappeared at a moment and Augustus went to find him, only to see his companion's door closed. Again.

Deciding to make the best of the awfully quiet evening, the businessman settled comfortably on his bed and opened another scandalous novel to make the time pass away. However, Sinclair could barely concentrate on the way the bra's strap was falling on the shoulder of the victim as she was stabbed by her jealous husband.

'Ah, screw this,' he thought bitterly as he looked at the ceiling. That was the kind of thing he liked reading on the sofa, next to Johnny, who would be clutching a pillow, sniffing at some bubble gum fiction or peering through a scientific journal that had been recommended by Tenenbaum. In the solitude of his room, with no music turned low or silent hiccups of empathy to fill the void, it made Sinclair feel like an old man reading dirty papers under his blanket at the retired asylum.

Thankfully, the door handle lowered and Johnny's curly head poked from around the frame, distracting him altogether. He silently asked if he could enter, to which Augustus snorted. "'Course you can come in, you ain't no stranger! I'm all for the opened doors."

If he could have talked, Johnny would have said a resounding 'I've noticed that.'

Sinclair lifted his reading glasses and perched them on top of his head, careful not to strangle himself with the neck cordon. He looked at his friend and noticed there was no novel in his hand.

Oh, he wanted to talk, then.

"Is there a matter, chief?" he asked, voice all honey. He sat up on the bed and arranged his robe over his forever striped bottoms and house shirt. "You haven't been yourself today, am I right?"

Johnny nodded.

"Come here, then," Sinclair said as he prepared to close his book and set it aside. The mute motioned for him not to bother and to lay back down, not to mind him. With raised eyebrows, he did as he had been told, but he didn't lower the glasses back over his eyes.

Johnny settled next to him and looked at the pages of the novel. It wasn't the perfect section to have stopped at, describing quite luridly how a man was murdering a woman during... intercourse. Evidently, whom was he referring to, after all.

"It's a good story, you've just caught it at the wrong page," Augustus explained himself.

The other only moved his hand in the air, vaguely.

"I could even say it's a children's book, if you judge it by the other chapters."

Johnny gave him an alarmed expression at that and pointed his crooked index finger at Sinclair, warning him.

"Jesus, Johnny, I ain't gonna be readin' somethin' like that to the girls! I'm bad with kids, but not that bad! Pff, chief, thanks for the note of confidence."

Normally, Johnny would have laughed his chocked guffaw, but he merely sketched a lost smile. He looked at Sinclair's face with a sad expression.

"Are my jokes this dry? I'm sorry, chief, I must be losin' my touch. I reckon the dear kraut must have turned me all sour."

Johnny averted his eyes after that remark. Visibly alarmed, Sinclair closed the book and lifted the glasses from his hair. He put them both on the nightstand and turned over on his belly, to look at his companion.

He lifted his hand and put it on Johnny's criss-crossed cheek. "Whatever is happenin' with you, big boy? Tell me. I don't like seein' you this way."

Johnny shook his head and batted the hand away. Sinclair took it as his cue to start worrying, because never had his housemate pushed him away before, not without a good reason.

What was with these two, who liked to give him the cold shoulder out of the sudden? Like father, like daughter, that was understandable, but what had Sinclair done wrong this time?

He hoped it was once again just a misunderstanding.

Johnny laid flatly on his back, listlessly fixating on the lamp on the ceiling. He made no moves, besides his regular breathing, his chest filling with air and then descending with the exhalation of it.

"Honey tart," Sinclair said, using his usual endearments, "talk to me, come on. I can't guess this one, I'm afraid."

Johnny still didn't mime any words.

"Alrigh', then. I'll take a leap of faith with you." Sinclair rested his chin on his palms. "So, yesterday you were fine, right? An' today, not so much. It must have been something that happened last night or... hm. This mornin'. Correct me if I'm wrong."

The mute man finally turned his face at him and nodded.

"Okay, so this is a warm guess, righ'? Good... what could have happened durin' this span of time... hm." Sinclair trailed the words, making them too long, to draw a reaction from his friend, who was still as blank as an empty sheet of paper.

"Still not gonna tell me? You're a difficult one to crack, I'll give you that," Sinclair made playfully, and Johnny's eyebrows twitched at the verb he'd used.

Realisation downed upon Augustus. With a heavy sigh, he rubbed his forehead. "Ah, blasted doors," he cursed. "You've seen me with Tenenbaum last night, 'cause I've left the door opened."

Johnny nodded, slowly, and averted his eyes along with his face.

Sinclair cupped his cheek and returned his head back at him. "Pff, unbelievable, you an' your daughter, both jumpin' at conclusions." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You honestly believe that I'd do anythin' with Brigid, of all the people, in our house no less, while you're waitin' for me to bid you goodnight? Johnny, for God's sake!" He grunted and covered his eyes, suddenly aching. "I get that your girl is young and thought that I was maulin' you, but you, too? Is my character this poorly perceived?"

The view in the mute's eyes turned into astonishment. He rapidly asked what was that thing about Eleanor.

"Ah, now you're talkin' to me? You and your daughter are made from the same batter, I swear." Sinclair dragged a pillow towards him and fixed his elbows in it. "She thought I was molestin' you or somethin', I don't wanna relay the whole conversation. She saw us when we were talkin' more... passionately, let's say, but I put her worries at ease. Nothin' saucy, I promise."

Sinclair suddenly started laughing. "Hah, I absolutely need to remember to close the goddamn doors before I enter anywhere, maybe write signs about what I'm doin' wherever I'm goin'." He shook his head. "Wanna know what it was all about? The good doctor got herself into a crying fit in front of me and shoved herself at me, an' I've merely rubbed her back an' told her it's alright. She was hysterical an' I didn't know what else to do, Johnny. You can ask her, if you'd like." He turned on his back, head plopping onto the pillow. "I can't believe you give me this little faith, chief. I'm wounded."

Johnny shifted closer to him and put a sinewy hand on his chest. Sinclair looked down at it. It was slowly slipping from him, retracting towards its owner, but he grasped it in his. "Forgive for makin' you miserable, Johnny. I didn't know it would affect you this much."

The free hand of the mute formed an apology for jumping at false assumptions.

"Nah, you're not at fault. I haven't exactly been honest with you... not truly."

The long fingers that were caught in his hand trembled momentarily. Johnny's other hand was already moving, telling him something, but Sinclair didn't register everything.

"Could you repeat that, please?"

Johnny retracted his trapped hand and started to mimic with the both of them. He related that he understood if Sinclair didn't want him anymore and had found someone whole for him. He swiftly added that he was happy for him.

Augustus made a face of disbelief. Eleanor needed no paternity test, from what he was seeing. Those two were practically identical in making up wild ideas. "Excuse you? What?"

He rolled again on his stomach, to peer at Johnny. He tapped his companion's forehead. "Lord, what on Earth is goin' through your head? I'm flattered that you think I've got some beeline after me, which I'm not aware of havin', but really? What are you, socks? I like my socks and I'm loyal to 'em, thank you very much. I can't even throw 'em away when they get a hole, 'cause you keep on sewin' them back together!" He chortled. "That's not what I wanted to tell you, sport, not even close."

He sneaked closer to the body lying next to his, until his chin was a few breaths away from the other's chest. "An' what do you mean by whole? You're whole enough, haven't noticed anythin' missing."

Johnny shook his head and motioned for the bullet trauma that had remained on his temple, hidden underneath his wavy fringe.

"No, sweetheart, 'hole' an' 'whole' only sound similar, ain't synonyms! That thing there, is nothin'. Not a single mark on you makes you a lesser man, Johnny." His lips pouted, turning later into a pleased smirk. "You are still the same handsome devil to me, with strong jaw and pretty eyes."

His vision roamed over the scarred valleys of Johnny's prominent facial bones, down to his hallowed cheeks. They were cleanly shaved, now devoid of rusting staples, and despite bearing the marks of the lack of care of those who had turned him into a Big Daddy, Sinclair couldn't have enough of mapping that face with its blue, bottomless orbs.

"Johnny pie, you've no idea how elated I am to be able to watch your face every day, at every moment when I'm home. I've never lied that I was anxious to see you, an'... well. It might 'ave gotten the best of me."

Johnny's eyebrows jolted again.

"It did, honey bee, because the more I look at you, the harder it is to be next to you, knowin' that I'm just an old man with plenty of curves in a' the wrong places. You're so tall, the way I have to look up to see your face! Ah, just marvellous," Sinclair exclaimed dreamily. "An' your head is full of black hair, not stricken with grey, like mine. I could very much be your daughter's granddaddy, given the age I think you have." He chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Eh, maybe not to that extreme, you ain't exactly the spring chicken an' I'm not that old, either, but you get my point." He snorted humourlessly.

"Honestly, sport, I used to charm everyone in the room from the first smile, but I doubt that I'd be charmin' even a blind crone righ' now. You are my sunken Adonis an'... well. I'm just about as attractive as a satyr. Hopefully, not as hairy, 'cause I might clog the drain in the shower," he jested poorly, not mustering a smile as he said it.

The mute man's scarred lips departed in a gasp of horror. He swiftly shook his head and grabbed the other's temples between the bottoms on his palms, forcing their eyes to meet. Their gazes locked and Johnny's blue eyes, framed by his dark hair that didn't want to stay as it was put, were begging him to stop from saying what he was.

Sinclair merely smiled sadly. "I wish you understood that I'm not just throwin' compliments at you, peach, not flatterin' you for the sport of it. I'm really ashamed to have taken advantage of you while you were confined to the suit, but I couldn't believe my luck with you. You're a good fella, kid, ain't deservin' this mambo jambo."

Johnny abruptly lifted his back and pressed their lips together, squarely, silencing the man that hadn't been made to belittle himself. Sinclair was the kind who was putting himself on a pedestal, crowning himself with everyone's sweat while slaves carried him over lifeless, crunching bodies. He had others pulling the chain for him, hadn't he said so? He was grand in more than one way, and not only in his eyes. His mouth hadn't been made not to sing praises to himself. It was unnatural. He didn't want to hear something like that, not from Augustus Sinclair, the flamboyant man that captivated with his deceitfully sweet talk, voluptuous smirk and bonny figure. He couldn't voice his thoughts out, but Johnny tried to have them mirrored through his actions.

He grabbed Augustus by the hair, stilling him. He willed the man to peer into his eyes, to see how his pupils dilated at his sight, as if he was looking at the sun on the sky. Sinclair watched him as if he'd gone insane, blinking and frowning, until his face split into a mischievous smirk.

The clench on his scalp slackened and he was allowed to move. His swept-back hair fell around his forehead, in a brown halo, punctuating his hazel eyes that were twinkling golden. He climbed over the larger body, straddling it, and grabbed the man by the back of his ears. "Ah, kid, an' I still can't believe my luck," Sinclair whispered as he bent to kiss him, not the inexperienced press of lips from before, but the hard searing touch of a man who burned with desire for another.

The barbed and sewn lips moved awkwardly, making up for the unfamiliarity with enthusiasm. Johnny felt as dizzy as he had been when Sinclair had grabbed him and crashed their mouths after his bandages had come off, when it was another moment when he hadn't known what to do.

But suddenly, Johnny knew. His arms circled the soft body that was covering his and dragged it closer to his chest, just as Augustus twisted his dark hair into balled fists. His mouth was invaded by a slick tongue, agile in departing his lips and dwelling deeper, and he welcomed it however he could, twisting his own rugged one around the other.

Oh, the brunette could barely breathe and his mind was blackening into heady oblivion as their teeth clashed and his tongue was bitten playfully, then sucked into the other's mouth. He moaned, not unlike a dying whale, and his hands travelled all over the other man's back, unable to rest in one place.

He could have drowned in the feeling of having his soul pulled out of him, blood pounding into his ears and choked sounds being engulfed by another's willing mouth. With difficulty, Sinclair put a little distance between them, biting gently onto Johnny's lower lip and dragging it with his teeth. He opened his honey eyes, pupils blown and pitch dark, eliciting another moan from his partner.

"Johnny. Are you sure, puddin'? I can roll over an' we can just forget about it, if you'd like," he murmured in a soothing voice, hardly betraying what they have been doing.

Johnny replied to him by spreading his legs and encompassing Sinclair's thighs between his. In a strike of confidence, he grabbed his buttocks and pressed him into his clothed nether region, their crotches rubbing roughly onto each other.

Sinclair grinned at him, feral as his fangs were uncovered under the corners of his mouth. "My bucking stallion, I reckon it's high time we break this new body o' yours in," he purred and stuck their mouths together, once again.

Johnny's fingertips bit into the round mounds of flesh that he was holding, astounded with how that felt. Through the gloves, he had only been guided by the sounds that Augustus was readily providing him with, but with his own skin, everything was so soft and warm. He kneaded harder, tightening his grip on the buttocks and rotating his wrists. He must have been bruising the skin under the fabric, he thought, but he couldn't get enough of what he was doing.

He lifted the hem of the robe and pushed his hands past the barrier of cloth, finally reaching the plump flesh and feeling it. He pulled the warm body closer, pushing it between his spread legs.

Sinclair let his partner's mouth hang slightly opened as he turned to place wet kisses along his jaw, peppering it with gentle bites, going lower down his neck. His teeth scrapped down the pale, scarred throat, far more aggressively, and Johnny gasped, amazed by the blur of foreign sensations filling his core.

Johnny was aching everywhere so, so pleasantly. He groaned, his windpipe vibrating under Sinclair's insistent lips, and he could hardly contain himself, panting and swiping his head back onto the pillow. Augustus was humming at his honest reactions, adding more vigour to his assault, and all that Johnny could do was to ground the man between his thighs harder, pressing them together until it hurt.

His legs were quivering and he was writhing, chasing after the heavy arousal of his beloved above him. Johnny didn't know what to do with that feeling, besides staring at Sinclair with unfocused eyes and curling his fingers into his skin.

'The kid's good for the soul', Sinclair thought airily, content with the heat that was surrounding him from everywhere. The younger man was awkwardly snapping his opened hips into his clothed erection, hitting his pelvis more often than not, but he was trying so hard that it was a pity to interrupt him. Not when it was this affectionate.

However, Johnny was no dullard and started to feel the different between flesh and bone, as if certain parts weren't about as dour as the others. He got the hang of things soon enough and lifted one of his knees, planting a sole into the mattress.

It was Augustus' turn to gasp when he was shifted to fit between the covered buttocks of his partner, whose lips tensed up into an opened smile. Raising the stakes of the game, the older man drew the contour of his cock over the form underneath, that pushed back up like he was going to fall through the bed.

"I hope you're feelin' prepared, honey tart," Sinclair purred into his ear, rubbing himself between the trembling, stretched thighs, "'cause I'm gonna ravage you 'till you see nothin' but the stars up above."

The gurgled croak he drew was further encouraging him, and who was Sinclair not to give into the opportunity, really.

He somehow unstuck the clinging form of his friend from him and sat on his bent knees, straightening up. Johnny watched him through glazed, stormy eyes. Smirking, Augustus let a single finger trail from the other's brow to his jaw, then to his agape mouth. The fingertip hooked on the lower lip and curved it down, until it escaped from under it, curling back up. Johnny unconsciously bit into the place that had been touched, turning the reddened lip crimson.

"Mm, let me see my tormentor," Sinclair whispered into his ear and caught the lobe between his teeth, nibbling it wetly. His tongue circled the skin and bit into the corner of his jaw, hands ghosting under Johnny's shirt and pulling it higher. He pulled it over the head and discarded it somewhere, all the time looking hungrily at the pale plains of lean muscle that was shaping up under the stitched skin.

His mouth was literally watering, as if he was having a treat in front of him, and Sinclair swallowed drily. It was no longer mere want that he was experiencing, but a need that was twisting his insides and igniting his loins, aching to have that statue of perfection for himself, to experience all it had to give and more.

He lowered his lips over the collarbone sticking up, sutures marring the flesh. He kissed and licked, without a pattern of intensity, eliciting strangled groans. His tongue darted to taste the skin and licked it, wetting it and making it glisten. Teeth grazed the flesh along with fingernails, reddening the pale complex.

Sinclair's hand caught one of the muscular pectorals and cupped it, rolling the perked up nipple into the back of his fist, while his mouth descended to nibble onto the other. He toadied around the trembling chest, the studied nips leaving angry reminders on the skin.

His hair was grabbed by the squirming mute, who was weeping in silence for his lack of words in front of his heavy desire. The rumbling chest sought after his attention, raising and falling in a haphazardly tremor.

The cordon of his robe was tugged insistently by Johnny, who wanted to sense their skins close. He didn't want to feel velvet cloth, but searing leather, just like the one he had been desperately grasping before. He forced them apart and struggled with Sinclair's shirt, fingers devoid of their usual deftness. He fumbled with the closed edges, unable to open the buttons, and the older man helped him undo them with hands far steadier than his.

Johnny's sinewy fingers darted into the newly found flesh and grabbled with it, fussed with the plump abdomen like it was dough. His hips buckled up and he pressed their foreheads together, hands roaming over the shorter man above him like a blind over carved marble.

Sinclair had his air pushed out his lungs when Johnny finally smacked their lips together, copying what he had done just a few moments before, and it was then that the businessman realised that he might have created a monster.

Oh, he was going to love that creature, so perfectly capturing his mouth and doing what he wanted with it.

Augustus ended their kiss with another rushed bite to the edge of the other's mouth, and returned to invading the uncovered territory of Johnny's abdomen with harsh tweaks of his teeth, followed by his moist tongue to soothe the stings. His fingers buried into the new skin they found, guided by the intense breathing of his lover, who was biting his lips and blinking incredulously at the sudden waves of pleasure.

He lowered himself, gliding down the limber body, to the angular hip bones that were disappearing into baggy sleeping pants. Sinclair blew hotly over the flushed skin above the waist. He ogled it like a starved animal, watched it get bashfully red. Satisfied with the scarlet leather, he lowered his chin on the round tip of the tent erected at the front of the bottoms, pressing enough to make the trapped dick jolt.

He looked directly into Johnny's widened eyes, blinking hard to focus on the older man's smug face. "What do you want me doin' to you, lover boy?" he asked, tone raspy, every word making him lower his jaw onto the hard length that was leaking under the cloth. "Mm, I wonder."

He licked his lips, slowly, before mouthing over the aroused member that was visibly pulsing under the fabric, pressuring kisses all over it and fangs mindfully puncturing around it. His hair was grabbed and Sinclair chuckled, warm air flowing over the cloth. "But oh, I know what I wanna do to you, honey," he voiced ardently, words rolling thickly over the centre of his attention. One of his hands sneaked under Johnny's hip, capturing his stout buttock, and the other went to his own hair. He grasped the gnarly fingers that were gingerly threading though his locks, and forced them to tug harder, to make his scalp ache.

Johnny whiffed, unbelieving. Sinclair smirked, heat going to his cheeks. "Mhm, yes, I know," he trailed on, his upper teeth grazing over the waist band. He lowered it just enough to uncover the weeping head of the scarlet cock and flicked his tongue over it. "I wanna see if you still taste like candy."

The yanked the pants lower, the dick following his sudden motion, then slapping onto the toned stomach of his partner. "Ah, finally found 'em," Sinclair said joyfully and sucked one of the heavy balls into his mouth, then let it out through his departed teeth. Johnny inhaled sharply and his hands tightened into Augustus' hair.

"You have to do that... harder," Sinclair instructed sultrily, biting hard enough to bruise into the junction of Johnny's inner thigh to make his point. Not even an instant later, his pointed tongue curled upwards on a thick vein that undulated towards the head of the dick that he readily engulfed to the point that he could barely take it anymore.

Oh, Sinclair mused daintily, the cock that hit into his throat and rendered him breathless as he was gagging around it was just as exquisitely vast as he remembered it.

Just as fast as he had gone down on whatever he could envelop of the length, he ascended from it. He left only the tip on his lush lower lip, balancing it precariously as he gazed into Johnny's blues. "I want my throat throbbin' from your cock, honey bee," he purled and kissed the wet slit that was leaking in heady arousal. "So I want you to fuck my mouth," he uttered as he gently grazed his sharp canines underneath the bulbous head, "like only you know how."

Without a warning or another sign, Augustus swallowed around the member, slowly encompassing more of it. He grabbed both of Johnny's bottom cheeks and fisted them hard, adding to his companion's already panting respiration, and hauled them up, all the while peering at his face.

He suddenly bobbed his head up, forcing the hand that had stilled into one position in his locks to move along. Not at all patiently, Sinclair lifted more of the arse that he was cupping, mimicking what he wanted, and Johnny's initially reluctant hips started to move upwards.

Sinclair finally closed his eyes with an opened grin. The hand on his head became insistent and the snapping thighs bounced to meet his lowering mouth. He let his muscles relax as he was guided, albeit slower at the beginning, how to suck onto that ridiculously sized dick of his beloved. The pace was picking up and the walls of his oral cavity were impaled, breathing cut short to helpless puffs through the nose, him all the while whimpering from the pain that he was craving for.

He could hardly feel his scalp anymore, his ears rang and he was throttling on the dick that was hitting into his uvula, and wasn't that blissful. Sinclair barely heard the heavy groans of his lover that was thrusting into his welcoming mouth, and all he could do was to leave himself prey to the overwhelming agony and pleasure that seemed to be one and the same.

His hand cupped himself roughly and he hallowed his cheeks harder, the cock relentless in his drooling mouth. In a daze, his wet eyes snapped opened as if he had had an epiphany. His fingernails bit into the pistoning hips, effectively stilling them.

The fingers in his hair loosed and trailed rapidly to his cheek. Sinclair peered up and let the cock that he had been suckling slip, arching back to the lower abdomen of his partner. Johnny looked down at him, seemingly alarmed, his pale face flushed and eyes moist from all that compulsive blinking he had been doing. One of his palms darted over his mouth and he watched him as if he had done Augustus the worst thing imaginable.

"Pff, don't give me that face like you've done somethin' terrible, darlin'," Sinclair said between a cough and a snort, adapting to inhaling normally again. "You know you always leave me breathless. Well, quite literally, this time," he teased and started chuckling, ending it with another cough for good measure.

He cleared his throat, aching as if it had been grazed from the inside. "Now, as much as I loathe parting myself from my special friend," Augustus said and flicked his tongue again over the spongy tip, "I might wanna show you somethin' quite... interesting."

Just as he ended his sentence, he spun Johnny's body around with unsuspecting force, rolling him over to his belly. He shifted the other's hips so his buttocks were hanging up and swiftly departed the cheeks, revealing the puckered arse that quivered at the sudden handling. Without skipping a beat, he lowered his mouth to circle the hole with his tongue, then pushed the pointed tip inside.

Johnny's forehead hit the pillow and sunk in it like it was melting butter. He groaned loudly, sounding like he was drowning, and bucked up into the opened mouth that was prodding his entrance. Just when he thought that was probably the most exquisite sensation he had ever experienced, Sinclair's hand darted to cup his leaking arousal, starting to rub it from hilt to bottom.

The tongue began to get insistent, thrusting more and more inside, fucking into the warm canal. Johnny couldn't remember how he was supposed to breathe and he chased after the wet muscle that was curling inside him, hitting spots that sent electricity through his nerves. He was jerked off harder, Augustus' palm becoming tighter over his cock. He heard a moan from the other man, barely audible as he was eating him up, ramming his insides with his sly tongue that must have gained some strange dexterity from all his incessant talking. The vibration shook Johnny, his hips moving on their own accord, as if they had a mind of their own.

Nothing made sense around Johnny anymore, it was all a blur of lights, most coloured like the blood bubbling in his head. Heat coiled tightly inside his stomach, threatening to explode, and he gasped, desperate to make real sounds of praise. Nothing but choked noises came out from his parted lips, his hips pushing and rotating on the opened mouth on his arse. He was afraid that he was hurting Sinclair, but the man kept his torture unwearied, prodding and licking him as if he was made from sugar.

The hand on his cock reached the tip one more time and bliss enveloped Johnny as he came hard into Sinclair's fist. He had no idea how he had been once again spun around, landing on his back, but the first thing he saw was Augustus stroking his not quite softening cock and lapping all the whiteness spread over his belly.

He was licking him all over, looking at him with crazed, self-indulging eyes. Johnny though that he must be blushing something fierce, because once all of the mess over him was cleaned by that overly eager mouth, Sinclair giggled soulfully. "Johnny, sweet tart, you - are a treat," he panted, managing to sound sensual, still caught up in his previous ministrations. He captured Johnny's lips again, smooching him filthily, sharing the taste of his cum like a gift.

Johnny fumbled with his hands, head spinning from his high, and palmed around Augustus' body, touching whatever he could. He lowered his fingers over the front of his striped boxers and cupped him, wanting to feel his heat even through the fabric.

"Mm, honey, wait a second," Sinclair said and lifted from the bed to look around the drawers, until he found a suspiciously violet jar on a shelf. "Hm. Hand cream," he read the label. "Hope you don't mind smelling of... lavender."

Johnny snorted as the man returned to the bed. He didn't allow him to resume his place, shielding himself with his long arms. Instead, he caught his hips, making Sinclair stop at the edge of the mattress. Swiftly, he caught the hem of his boxers and yanked them down, letting them to fall on the floor.

Presented with the curved upwards arousal of his lover, Johnny caught it in his palm and gave it a testing lick, curious of how it was. Just perfectly intoxicating, he thought lustfully. All the while smiling shyly, he slowly stroked the cock and lapped around the head, aiming to show some heavily meant gratitude.

He was stilled, however, and was pushed backwards on the bed. "Lovely, honey, but not the plan," Sinclair lulled, voice light and bouncy as he climbed back over Johnny and kissed him again, not bothering with the introductions.

Johnny circled his arms around his waist and pulled him closer, their cocks rubbing together hotly. His large hand stroked them together. He spread his legs wider and pushed into Sinclair, who stopped him again. "Yes, you're killin' me, too, but I'm not about to take you dry, sweetheart! You know the drill, don't be a brat," he admonished, though he was smirking sweetly.

Augustus opened the heavily scented hand cream jar and dipped three of his fingers into it. He bowed to gently kiss Johnny on the lips, far slower than anything that had happened that night. His slicked hand roamed between the buttocks of his beloved, circling the area and covering it in the soft liquid cream. He eased his index in, deliberately, not to produce any lesions or pain, as he was not awfully fond of hurting anyone undeserving, especially his dear Johnny.

The finger felt strange to the former Big Daddy, but he tried to relax. He was being handled very gingerly, very different than what Sinclair ever made him do to him. Somewhere in the back of his head, Johnny was ashamed that he had treated his partner so roughly before, when he was still inside the big lumbering diving suit. But then, he remembered that he had been demanded to act so and was frequently addressed as being too gentle, despite Sinclair appearing like he was being choked from both ends.

Well.

Johnny could have debated over that thought for a long time, but it was pushed straight out of his mind when another finger entered him. It was hard to say if it was painful or not. It was merely queer, but after its second plunge inside, it became maddening.

The pace was still very slow and he was carefully stretched, unrushed, while tender kisses were laid on his jaw and neck. He was breathing through his opened mouth, panting from what he was feeling, that strange new thing. When he started to get accustomed to the two relatively benign fingers, the angle in which they were pushing changed, hitting something that shook him from the core.

Johnny gasped, his eyes widened comically and his thighs trembled from the absolutely mind scrambling brushing he felt within.

The hand inside him started to move a tad faster. Sinclair lowered himself to bite into a bruise that he had already left on Johnny's collar. The younger man's spine arched and he pushed hard into the moving fingers, driving up a strangled moan from his chest.

Another finger joined the rest and the thrusts became harsh, unrelenting, prodding straight into that place that made Johnny groan and see those promised stars. He pushed back into the hand, breath coming in guffaws, and Sinclair abused his skin, leaving it red and purple wherever he was giving his attention to.

Johnny was making wild noises, as much as he could with his damaged chords, but he was thrashing so badly that he needed no words. Tension was ringing like a bell in him and he was desperately clutching Augustus' shoulders, watching him almost rabidly.

Mustering up some strength, Johnny detached one of his clawed hands from his partner and started stroking him, sloppily and uncoordinatedly, but making up for that with a lot of enthusiasm.

"Heavens, kid," Sinclair told, mesmerised, "you're out of this world." He twisted his wrist again and Johnny jolted off the bed. "Are you feelin' ready, honey bear?" he asked, adding a forth finger just because he could.

Johnny nodded enthusiastically and tugged impatiently at the dick in his hand. He would have loved to be able to talk, to have functional vocal chords, because he really had a lot of things to say right then.

His hole was abandoned, leaving him dreadfully empty. The rim twitched and gaped without the intrusion. Eagerly, Johnny grabbed the violet jar before Sinclair got to it, and presented it to him like a trophy.

Augustus chuckled at how Johnny was trying to express himself without speaking. "Oh, what is it, chief, are we gettin' impatient? How uncanny of you, rushin' an ol' man."

Johnny glared at him and insisted with the jar. Sinclair dipped his fingers again into it, but did little else besides pecking Johnny's nose. He was nudged by a knee into the ribs.

Letting the little vessel clank onto the nightstand, Johnny brushed his fingers on the older man's wrist, poking it with the fingertips. He looked expectantly at it and Augustus smiled sweetly. "Still the same loveable tin can," he said and kissed his friend's forehead tenderly. Straightening back up, he slowly coated his cock with the scented cream, making Johnny's eyes bulge and teeth bite into his lips at the sight.

Johnny's hands darted up and he started to mimic. '_Please, don't stop_,' he mimed and pointed to Sinclair hand that was just leaving his groin alone.

"Oh, really?" he made and then grinned. Perfectly theatrically, Augustus guided his hand back over his arousal and slowly rubbed himself, making his cock glisten as he twisted his palm over the tip. Johnny's knees trembled from excitement and he bit into his lips harder, his neck getting even redder than it was, staring at the little display.

His blue eyes darted up to peer into the hazel ones that were practically radiating with amusement. Johnny smiled lazily and felt both his hips being stroked. Their cocks delicately bumped into each other and jolted at unison. Johnny raised his hands again, in front of himself. '_Say it_,' he mimicked.

Sinclair's eyebrows shot up innocently. "Say what, honey?" he asked, playing the confused part.

'_That_,' Johnny continued. He averted his eyes, embarrassed. '_What you want to do to me_.'

"Oh, that," Sinclair made knowingly. "Yes, well. I wanna take you out sometimes, maybe go dancin'. That'd be rad, Johnny, right?"

Johnny's raised knee poked him again, the blushing man shaking his head.

"Not that? Pity. Now that I think of it, I wanna take you to a fair, another time," Augustus suggested mildly. "You'll love the clowns and balloons."

Being prepared for another nudge from the shin of his partner, Sinclair caught it midair. He leaned forward, between the spread legs. "But first, honey bear, I wanna fuck you 'till you can't walk straight an' hear you cuss when you sit down." With that, he flipped Johnny around until he was on his bent knees.

Between the thumb and the index, Sinclair departed the arse cheeks that were suspended high and slowly pushed himself in. Johnny fisted the sheets under him, gasping for air and struggling to see behind him. "Shh, honey, take it easy, now." He lowered himself to speak into his ear. "I might wanna do a lot o' things to you, but hurtin' you ain't one."

To his surprise, Johnny grabbed his leg and squeezed it, then pushed back, clamping his eyes shut. The scarred face contorted in a beautiful grimace, his mind falling into a trance of sensations and he moved backwards again, impaling himself sloppily, irregularly into the still man behind him.

"Hell's balls, kid, you're so tight," Sinclair murmured into his hair, making Johnny shiver with delight. He slapped the writhing arse cheek and pushed the entire body into the mattress, immobilising it under his weight. Sensually, achingly slow, he thrust forward, muscle rippling around his cock and pulling him in.

Pressed close to the round mounds of flesh, he tantalisingly undulated his loins, still holding onto Johnny, preventing any moves from him. He backed off, just as slowly, until only the tip was inside.

Johnny's fingers were trying to reach behind him, to catch Augustus who was merely looking at his back, admiring the way the muscles trembled with tension. "My, my, ain't this an image to remember," he said matter-of-factly and thrust so hard into the buzzing body, that it slid higher on the bed.

Whatever resistance in Johnny collapsed as he was fucked into almost vengefully, roughly pushed into the sheets with each dumbing pistoning of that hard dick, pulling, pushing and pulling again at his insides, hitting dead on that spot that made his vision go white.

He wanted that to never end, wanted it harder and deeper, and the thrusts kept on delivering whatever his lust filled mind was spurring. His heart was thumping into his throat and he was making sounds not even a broken engine would do, squeaking and roaring at the same time, air gushing through his opened lips. He bit at them, enveloped by the twist into his guts, rendering him into a sobbing mush of shivering flesh.

Sinclair ran his hands over the glistening back of his partner, nails cutting into the red skin, turning it crimson. He fisted the curly hair spilled over the pillow and tugged it up, lifting Johnny's head towards him as if he was a doll.

Johnny struggled to scream and he tensed in pleasure, grinning as the snaps into his arse shifted to push even deeper, sensing his loved companion smacking into his backside. Teeth and wet lips browsed from his hair line down to the shoulder junction below. Oh, he could feel himself so near, he could practically bite into the edge.

All of the sudden, the hand caught the nape of his head, lowering it back onto the pillow. Johnny tried to catch the retreating member back into his arse, but he was once again stopped.

Sinclair bit one of his buttocks hard before turning him around, with his visage facing up. Johnny was a panting mess, all goose bumps and drool falling from his agape mouth from all that moaning into the pillow. The younger man felt a bit disgusting, picturing himself a bit like an overheated pig.

Augustus tittered conspicuously at him and patted his flushed gullet. "As I was sayin', quite an image, big boy." He slicked the brown fringe that had fallen into his eyes back in its usual place, looking all debauched and ravishing at the same time. Johnny moaned, watching him with dilated pupils, and suddenly caught the sides of the other man's neck. Nimble fingers dug into the flesh, pressing over a pulse point, making Sinclair swallow hard from the constriction.

Augustus sensually lowered himself to lick the bruised lips and the hand in his throat tightened as it descended to his bare shoulder. Johnny smiled under the tongue, quickly catching it into his mouth and filthily kissing him, a mess of teeth and spit echoing around their shared moans.

Sinclair caught his hips again and Johnny lifted one of his legs abruptly, bumping his knee straight into the older man's jaw. The brunette made an apologetic face that turned blissful as the inside of his raised knee was bit, action punctuated by the bulbous head circling his entrance.

Without skipping a beat, Augustus thrust home into the still impossibly tight arse of his partner, whose eyes rolled into the back of his head, sobbing a strangled moan.

He began a snappish pace, slowly backing out and slamming in hard. The scorching canal was clenching around his length and Johnny was making the most debauched noises he had ever heard, sounded feral with desire. The leg that he had hooked over his shoulder was convulsing, muscles jumping with spasms every time his prostrate was being jammed.

Johnny's toes curled when the angle shifted slightly and Sinclair finally bottomed out, their skins slapping closely then departing, only to meet again in a bruising smack.

Augustus' hands were absolutely everywhere, in his hair, into his neck, in his mouth and on his thighs. It was as if the man had ten pairs of them, not just one, and they were cupping him all over.

Oh, Johnny felt it straight into his lungs when his dick was grabbed roughly and agile digits started pumping over it.

He caught the wrist and bit the fingers so hard, Johnny tasted the tinge of copper from the punctured skin. He frowned at his lover and caught his hips that had stuttered at the burst of pain. Holding onto them tightly, he pulled Sinclair into him and his face lit up as a candle when he felt his cock moving again. He craved to cum all over himself just from that maddening thing that resumed its invasion, to show just how much it affected him in all the good places.

It was all a blur of limbs and wet smacks, hard and resounding throughout the room. Neither knew where one ended and the other began, driving into each other, clinging with claws, biting relentlessly and wounding the skin. Johnny sounded strangled and Sinclair feverishly babbled whatever passed through his head, more often than not cursing or saying things that even he wouldn't dream to say under usual circumstances.

The litany of nonsense ended into whirl of sharp cries when three digits, still far thicker than his own, penetrated through Augustus' clenched arsehole, pushing inside dryly. Indirectly, they rushed him into the body that was opened in front of him. "Oh Lord, Johnny," Sinclair growled hotly, "fu-uck, you're a menace."

Johnny grinned and kept on shoving his fingers, ruthlessly and out of tune, all the while being pounded into oblivion with renowned vigour.

Warmth coiled and sprung into the younger man's belly. His entire being was ringing with electricity. Sinclair pushed his thumbs into Johnny's low abdomen and the brunette's cock jolted spectacularly, cumming all over their connected bodies, his neck bending backwards and his mouth forming a circle of awe. All of him clenched around his partner and the fingers in his arse curled, hitting right where it always got the older man into a panting fit.

Biting hard into the inner side of his lover's raised knee, Sinclair grounded himself one more time and came deep inside the warm and welcoming arse of his beloved.

His knees weakened and he planted his palm next to Johnny's head, who turned to nibble at his wrist. His waist was circled by long arms and he let himself collapse over the breathless younger man, who kissed his lights out in a sloppy make out.

Sinclair rolled onto his back and took Johnny with him. The former Big Daddy seated his head on his chest, smiling longingly at the older man. Augustus scratched his brows and started laughing. "Christ, honey, you are a glorified imp."

Johnny rubbed his cheek over the warm pectoral he was resting on and nipped it gently. He nodded soon after.

"Yeah, yeah, obviously," Sinclair made and patted his wavy hair, flung in absolutely every direction. He looked at the purpling marks over Johnny's back and arms. He dreaded thinking of what bruises he was sporting, himself.

Well, all worth it, Sinclair mused satisfied with himself, even if he would probably have to pretend his throat was aching – which it did, grandly – and wrap a scarf or something around his neck. There was no way his shirt and tie could hide those marks. It was impossible not to have at least some fingerprints above the collar, he was feeling the imprints burning even without seeing them.

Ah, whatever. Sinclair had never been with another one like his amazing partner, he couldn't care less if anyone noticed his love making bruises. Boo-hoo's for them, really.

He kissed the top of Johnny's raven head, deciding he could stress over the technicalities later. "Remind me, sweetheart, why haven't I jumped you earlier?" he asked pensively.

Johnny shrugged and snuggled into the warmth of his chest.

"Mhm, probably," Sinclair agreed, even if there was nothing to agree with in the first place. He startled when a wet tongue lapped over the semen that was slowly drying over his skin. He peered down and saw Johnny looking up at him with devilish eyes, the blue in them appearing blacker than his hair.

A large hand patted the place over his heart, and after kissing the spot, Johnny nudged his companion with his formerly broken and crooked nose, now straightened back into its normal position.

Sinclair smiled indulgently at him. "I know you do, honey tart, an' I love you, too."

Johnny nodded and smirked lopsidedly, sutures still pulling at his lips in strange angles. All the while gazing at Augustus' face, he descended to wipe the mess he had made on the other's torso when he had come. He made Sinclair chuckle darkly from the tickling, the chest vibrating under his tongue.

"Hah, sugar cane, have I ever told you I'm fully diggin' your way of confessin' your undyin' love for me?" he made, exaggeratedly drawing the words longer, almost sounding mockingly, but meaning them, anyway. He cupped the disfigured cheeks and kissed their owner's mouth, sweetly and lovingly.

The night was finally allowed to fall around them as their bodies fell into the roles they remembered so well, just like when not even the cage over Johnny Topside's stitched up body, the man formerly known as Subject Delta, hadn't stopped them from showing just how deeply they had fallen for each other.

XXXXX

_About a week later..._

Sinclair turned the page of his book and looked up. He smiled sweetly at Johnny, who had lifted his head from his novel and was looking at him with longing in his eyes.

Upon locking their gazes, Johnny's eyes darted guiltily into the opened tome over his lap, blushing lightly.

It was hard not to laugh, Augustus pondered, when Johnny was so skittish whenever he was caught staring. He was so honest in whatever he did, it was absolutely heart-warming.

It was going to be even more amusing to explain to Eleanor why her father had taken up camp in his bedroom - Sinclair could hardly wait for the awkwardness that it would surely ensure.

Speaking of the devil, the young girl, who had just returned from her trip with Porter and Jack's adoptive daughters, appeared from behind the door to the living room.

"Sinclair," she demanded, "I remember to have left my hand cream in your room, but I cannot find it."

'Ah, here we go,' Augustus thought with gusto, seeing the redness over Johnny's neck spreading to his ears. 'This'll be fun.'

He faked a curious face. "Oh? The one in the purple jar?"

"Yes, that is the one," Eleanor replied impatiently. "Have you moved it?"

"Well, you'll have to forgive me, but you ain't gonna find it."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Why not?"

"I've just thrown the jar away, it had... finished."

"Finished? I had just opened it!"

"Ah, you see, it came in handy while you were away, as to say," Sinclair said vaguely, keeping an eye on Johnny, who looked like he wanted to sink through the couch seat. "There is nothin' as bad as cracked skin, you see."

"Oh. Yes, I suppose," Eleanor made and shrugged. "You should have said that you have used it, I have no issues with it." She turned to her father, who was sitting awfully stiff. "Are you alright, father? You seem a bit flushed, are you perhaps feverish?" she asked, concerned.

'The girl's a riot,' Sinclair thought candidly and hid his laughter with a little cough that went unnoticed.

Johnny quickly shook his head and mimicked that he was fine.

"If you say so, father." She turned to the door and walked towards the frame, then stopped. She looked over her back at the two men on the couch. "Does either of you want anything from the kitchen? I'll make some tea."

"That would be lovely," Sinclair retorted warmly. "Thank you, honey."

Johnny nodded snappily, his smile crispate, clutching the covers of his book.

"Alright," Eleanor said and left them alone.

Augustus looked over his side, at his hyperventilating couchmate. He was frowning at him. "What? You go explain to the girl what'd happened to her hand cream, if you've got a problem with my version."

Johnny threw him a dirty look and averted his eyes, getting even redder.

"Ah, I knew you'll see things my way on this," the older man commented lightly. He swiftly patted Johnny's leg, having his attention again. "You know what we need to do, however? Remember the name on the label. That thing, my God! It was phenomenal."

He leaned forward, to whisper into Johnny's reddened ear. "Or it might have been your lavender scented arse, but then again. It might be just me," he muttered conspicuously and returned his shoulders on the armrest.

When he heard Johnny groaning embarrassedly, Sinclair started laughing with all that he had.

Eleanor returned with the tea kettle and gave the mirthful man a queer look. He merely waved her off and pointed to his book. Johnny shifted uncomfortably and tried to smile at his daughter, who watched them as if they've both gone insane while she had been away.

What a perfectly fine way to spend the afternoon in the company of those he held so close to his heart, Sinclair decided as Eleanor sat between him and her father. Just dandy, even if Johnny might consider strangling him when their girl was out of sight.

Wasn't their life together a quaint, marvellous thing.

Hm.

* * *

A/N: Ta-da! That's the conclusion of this story, maybe a bit too lengthy for a two-shot, but hopefully, an enjoyable read. I couldn't make it just a fast smut, not with these complex characters that deserve a lot of tender care. Let me know what you think of this, I'd love to hear your feedback! Thank you so much for reading!

I will definitely write more to this pairing and for the BioShock fandom, I haven't suspected it would be this fun to write anything to do with it. The games are amazing and deserve a lot of love, just like the many great characters. I hope I have done them some justice with this story – Sinclair, Delta and Eleanor deserve a lot of recognition, along with all the rest. I don't know how lively the fandom still is, but even if a few indulge in it, I'm still happy. Thank you again for reading!

Until the next time, bye-bye!


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